


A Different Time, A Different Place

by Aggie2011



Series: Vantage Point Universe [33]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, Family, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-06-04 13:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6659554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aggie2011/pseuds/Aggie2011
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of alternate universe one-shots centered around the characters Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff, but will occasionally include others. Some have multiple parts, some stand alone. Ongoing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pearl Harbor

_Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie or tv show in the works._

_Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

_So most of my readers said they'd prefer to have the AU's in a separate story vein, instead of keeping them with the "Snapshots" which are all pretty much Vantage Point Universe ficlets. So here we are. If you're new to my work, I have an entire series dedicated to Clint Barton, go check it out :)_

_This was originally written for Clintasha Week 2016 on tumblr._

_This is unbeta'd and off the cuff so all mistakes are my own and you have my apologies :) Enjoy._

* * *

**_AU Scenario: Clint is a hotshot Navy pilot and Natasha is a Navy nurse._ **

* * *

Natasha stared at herself in the mirror, sighing deeply as she took in the white uniform. It was made complete by the equally white cap pinned on top of her head.

A nurse. She was a Navy nurse.

Even a year into it, she still couldn't believe that this had become her life. Not that she had anything against nurses. The women she worked with were amazing, kind, brave women. But Natasha just wasn't cut out for this.

For one, her bedside manner left something to be desired. Left _a lot_ to be desired actually. She couldn't even count the number of times her supervisor, Maria, had told her that telling guys to 'stop crying like babies' wasn't proper patient care.

She couldn't help it, though, it's just the way she was.

Beyond that, though, she wasn't a _nurturer_ or a _care giver._ She'd been raised in an orphanage where you fought for anything and _everything_. And she'd learned to fight well.

When this war had started, she'd yearned – as most people had – for a way to do her part. But they didn't let women into the military. They didn't let women _fight_. So she did the next best thing, the thing that at least let her help those who _did_ do the fighting.

She was a Navy nurse.

A banging on the door had her straightening, adjusting her long red hair on her shoulders.

"Natasha, come _on_ , the new pilots just got here!" Anna, one of her house mates shouted.

Natasha rolled her eyes. Anna was only 18, she got moon eyed and drooling every time a remotely good looking Navy boy walked by her. She practically had a fit when a whole new batch of them arrived.

Most of the other girls in her house – Becky, Meredith, and Ali – they all got just as excited. It was only Natasha and Beth – who was mousey and barely spoke – who couldn't care less _how_ good looking the sailors were.

As far as Natasha was concerned, most of them were absolute idiots who thought far too much of themselves. _Especially_ the pilots. They thought that because they had a pair of wings pinned to their chest they were something special…that they were _owed_ adoration.

Natasha rolled her eyes when Anna banged on the door again.

"I'm _coming_!" she snapped.

She checked her reflection once more – just because she wasn't cut out for nursing didn't mean she couldn't look _good_ while doing it – and then reach for the door.

* * *

"Oh my god," Anna squealed as she all but dragged Natasha along the sidewalk.

Becky, Meredith, and Ali were all following behind them, whispering and giggling. Behind them, Beth was clutching her purse to her chest and walking with downcast eyes.

"Would you _look_ at them?" Anna fawned, pulling down her sunglasses to peer over them at the cluster of young men moving in a herd towards the hospital, likely for medical check in.

Natasha rolled her eyes behind her own sunglasses, nudging them farther up her nose.

"Come _on_ ," she urged the bouncing teenager. "We're late."

That got them all moving. They hurried past the group of men and Natasha practically had to drag _Anna_ now to keep her from throwing herself at the first guy who caught her eye.

In her haste, Natasha bodily collided with one of the sailors, one walking a little away from the pack and consequently in her path.

The young man stumbled and then hastily stepped aside.

"Sorry," Natasha muttered, glancing over her shoulder to meet his gaze even as she kept moving.

Amused blue-gray eyes caught hers and for a moment she felt like the rest of the world faded away. Then Anna was giggling next to her.

"Oh yes," her young friend crooned, "she's _very_ sorry."

Natasha snapped out of her momentary daze and pulled Anna along.

"A gentleman would have left a clear path for us to pass," Natasha tossed over her shoulder.

She thought she heard a chuckle before it was taken by the breeze and they left the group of men behind them.

"Nat, you are _no_ fun."

"I can't have fun, Anna, because you have too _much_ fun," Natasha teased.

Anna grinned, not bothering to deny the accusation.

"Did you see that pilot? He was downright _staring_ at Nat," Ali whispered behind them as they filed into the medical building, leaving the bright Hawaiian sun behind them.

"You ladies are late, _again_ ," Head Nurse Maria Hill scolded as she appeared in front of them.

"Sorry, ma'am," Meredith apologized with a grin. "Natasha was flirting with one of the new pilots."

Natasha tossed her _friend_ a glare that promised retribution.

Hill's dark eyebrow arched doubtfully.

"Well, Natasha, if you're so enamored with the new arrivals, _you_ can do their check ins."

All six of them sighed in disappointment, but for entirely different reasons. Natasha hated check ins, they were _boring_. And she knew that Beth loved doing the paperwork and would be disappointed to miss out on it. The _other_ four would be intensely disappointed to miss out on scoping out the new meat.

She accepted the stack of files Hill handed her and left Meredith with one last glare before heading to the intake desk

A minute later the crowd of men from outside filed in and gathered in front of her.

"My name is Nurse Romanoff, I'm going to be doing your check ins and updating your files," she greeted the crowd. "I'll call you back one at a time, until your name is called, you can wait over there," she motioned at a small group of chairs against the wall.

She looked down at the first file and called out the name.

"Barton, Clinton."

The mass of men all moved, heading for the chairs, save for one.

Natasha looked up and felt her breath catch in her throat.

Blue-gray eyes.

A dirty blonde eyebrow arched above them.

"We gonna just stand here? Or…" the young man gave her a slight smirk.

Natasha stiffened, forced away her shock.

"You," she stated blandly. "The one who doesn't know how to clear a path."

His lips twitched.

"And _you_ ," he replied easily, "the one who mows down all in her path like a tractor."

She scowled. He shrugged innocently.

"Follow me," she ordered, spinning on her heel and marching back to the nearest open curtain.

He followed her easily and when she motioned him to sit on the cot, he obeyed. She perched on the stool and looked over his file.

"Looks like you're up to date on your shots," she murmured mostly to herself.

She took in all the information the file provided her with. He was from Iowa. 21 years old. Had been in the Navy since he was 18. Then her eyebrows shot up. "Is this really your vision score?" she asked in shock.

He shrugged.

She looked back down at the file. His vision was perfect, better than perfect… _literally_. There was a notation next to the score stating that his eyesight went beyond the capabilities of the vision testing available at the time.

She shook her head, impressed and moved on.

Apparently he had some injured ribs that needed to be checked over.

She looked back up to find Barton staring at her.

"What?" she snapped.

He held up a hand in apology and looked away. Maria's voice rang in her head.

" _Natasha, you'll get more cooperation if you're at least_ _ **vaguely**_ _nice to them."_

Natasha sighed and put the file down on the cart.

"Sorry," she apologized reluctantly as she moved to close the curtain. She shot him a slight glance over her shoulder. "After so long, the staring has gotten old," she tried to explain.

Barton nodded that he understood.

"Take off your shirt so I can check your ribs and then you can be on your way."

He stood immediately, resting his cover on the cot and unbuttoning his shirt. He tossed it onto the cot and stripped out of his undershirt.

Natasha arched an eyebrow at the black and brown bruising on his right side. She shook her head and came closer.

She carefully felt along the bruising, eyes straying to an old thin scar on his upper chest.

He didn't even flinch as her fingers probed the healing injury.

"You can't get mad at guys for staring at you," he stated abruptly, but quietly.

She glanced up to meet his gaze and arched a challenging eyebrow.

"You can't," he reiterated with a slight shrug as she continued to check the progress of his healing side. "I mean, you and your pack of vultures out there stare at _us_ all the time."

She glared up at him now and he just shrugged again.

"Just saying."

She stepped back.

"Your ribs seem to have healed nicely," she told him. "And I _don't_ stare." Then, without meaning to, "What happened?" She motioned at the bruising.

He tilted his head at her, apparently curious about _her_ curiosity.

"I got in a fight," he admitted.

Natasha rolled her eyes, _typical_.

"You can put your shirt back on," she told him. He turned to grab his undershirt from the cot as she moved back to where his file rested. She caught a glimpse of something on his back and shifted for a better view.

Her mouth went dry and her throat tightened.

Scars. Long, thin scars criss-crossed over his entire back.

Before she could even _process_ what she was seeing, his white undershirt slid down, hiding the marks from view. Natasha turned back to the cart, so that he wouldn't know she'd been staring. She scribbled down a notation about his ribs and then flipped the file closed.

When she turned back, he was tucking in his uniform.

"Have a nice day," she jerked her chin towards the curtain.

He gave her a slight smirk that she didn't understand and then ducked through the curtain and out of sight.

Barely a breath later, Anna was sneaking in.

"Oh my goodness, Natasha, that was _him_."

Natasha frowned in confusion.

"Who?"

"That guy, the one that just left. He's the _top_ pilot in the _entire_ Navy! I was talking to some of the new sailors and apparently he's the _best_ there's ever been!"

Natasha arched an eyebrow curiously. But Anna wasn't done.

" _And,_ " she went on, "apparently he got into a _huge_ fight a couple of weeks ago. He caught a few guys attacking a girl, like _attacking_ ," judging by the meaningful look in her eye, Anna meant they'd been doing more than just slapping the girl around, "and he fought _all_ of them. There were _five_ of them."

Natasha blinked.

" _I got in a fight."_ He'd said.

No bragging about being a hero. No proclaiming that he'd taken on five guys and _won_. Just… _I got in a fight_.

"So," Anna nudged her, "what was he like?"

It was then that Natasha realized that beyond the staring, Clint Barton hadn't even _hit_ on her. He hadn't said anything lewd or suggestive. He hadn't asked her out or made her feel like a prize he was competing for.

He'd just given back sass as good as she'd given it and been on his way.

"He was...different."

* * *

She didn't see him again for a week. All the girls forced her to go out with them to a party. Though reluctant, she knew that they'd never take no for an answer. So she went.

The rest of her roommates, even quiet Beth, were off dancing before they'd even cleared the doorway. Natasha rebuffed a few men trying to pull her out to join the dancing and made her way along the bar.

That was when she spotted him.

He was sitting alone at the end of the bar, watching the dancing crowds quietly.

As if feeling a supernatural pull, she found herself sliding onto the stool next to him.

His gaze pulled away from the crowd to focus on her. Honest surprise lit his gaze.

"What's your angle?" she demanded bluntly.

His eyebrow arched and he reached for the cup in front of him.

She eyed it…it looked like _water_.

This guy just kept getting more and more confusing.

"My angle?" he asked skeptically.

"Don't play dumb," she narrowed her eyes. "Every guy that comes through that hospital practically slips on their own drool. You, _you_ don't even try to make a move on me. Not _one_."

He shot her a teasing glance.

"Are you offended?" he asked.

"No," she defended sharply. "It's just…it was unexpected…" she sighed. "Refreshing even."

He shrugged a shoulder and sipped his water.

"Then," she couldn't stop herself from going on, "you _'got in a fight'_? I know what you did. I know that you got in that fight saving a girl who was getting attacked. Most guys would wear that story like a badge of honor."

He gave her a confused look.

"Are you mad at me for _not_ being like most guys?"

Natasha huffed.

" _No_."

His gaze narrowed.

"Then why are you mad at me?"

"I'm _not_ ," she insisted. "You're just… _frustrating."_

He grinned slightly.

"It's been said," he admitted. "I think Coulson wanted to put it as an official notation in my file."

"Coulson?" she asked curiously.

"My training officer. He actually transferred her with me…he's around here somewhere." Clint looked around, then shrugged and settle his gaze back on hers.

Natasha felt herself suddenly blushing under his piercing gaze, it felt like he was looking right into her soul. She scrambled for something else to focus on.

"You're drinking water?" she asked abruptly.

He nodded.

"Not much for alcohol," he admitted.

She found herself smiling.

"You really _are_ different than the rest of these guys, aren't you?"

He grinned.

" _That_ , I wear as a badge of honor."

Natasha chuckled and slid off the stool, feeling an unfamiliar giddiness sweep through him.

"Mr. Barton, against my better judgement. I'm going to agree to dance with you."

Barton turned on his stool and regarded her with a smirk.

"Well, Nurse Romanoff, with an offer like that, how can a guy refuse?" He slid off his stool and held out his hand. "Call me, Clint."

She took his hand and felt herself smile.

"Call me, Natasha."

* * *

_Three weeks later…_

"I'm telling you," Clint insisted, "nothing beats that feeling of being in a cockpit with nothing but thousands of feet of air beneath you."

Natasha smiled, leaning into Clint's side as they walked along the beach.

"So you've always wanted to be a pilot?" she asked.

He hesitated, hand tightening where it was woven with hers.

"No," he admitted. "When I was a kid, I wanted to be in the circus."

She snorted.

"You're kidding?"

He laughed and shook his head.

"Nope, even lived the dream for a few years before it all fell apart. Then the war happened and I joined up."

"So how did you end up becoming the best fighter pilot in the Navy?"

He shifted his gaze to look over the water as they walked.

"Phil thought I had good reflexes and then he got a hold of my vision test. Forced me into a cockpit. He says I picked it up pretty fast for a guy that had never even driven a car."

"When can I meet him?" she asked. Clint talked about Phil all the time, like he was family instead of a superior.

"Soon," Clint promised.

Natasha nodded.

"So _nothing_ beats the feeling of flying, huh?" she challenged as she pulled him to a stop and moved to stand in front of him. His eyebrow arched curiously. "Not even this?"

She leaned up and pressed her lips against his. It wasn't their first kiss; she hadn't managed to hold out on that past their second date. Clint just…had a way about him that she couldn't resist. That she didn't _want_ to resist.

He wasted no time wrapping his arms around her and deepening the kiss. She found her own arms going up over his shoulders.

When they finally parted, he was smiling.

"No," he agreed. " _That_ definitely beats it."

She smiled, thinking of her roommates all being out tonight. Every one of them had a date, even Beth. She grabbed Clint's hand.

"Come on," she started pulling him along. "I can think of something _else_ …that might even beat _that_."

* * *

_Three months later…  
_ _December 7, 1941  
_ _7:40am_

* * *

"You are _so frustrating!"_ Natasha shouted as she followed Clint through the house. He yanked his t-shirt over his head as he went.

Five sleep mussed heads almost simultaneously peeked out of their bedroom doors.

"Sorry," Natasha muttered, shoving against Clint's shoulder to get him to go outside. "Go back to sleep!" she snapped over her shoulder and all five heads disappeared back into their respective rooms.

"Why are you doing this?" Natasha demanded as she tightened her robe around her body and glared at him across the small patch of grass that was their front yard.

"Natasha…"

" _No_ ," she snapped. "You don't get to say what you said in there and then say my name like that, like nothing happened!"

"I don't get to say _what_?" He finally snapped back. "I don't get to say 'I love you'? Why? Why can't I say that? It's _true_."

"No it's not," she argued. "It's only been three months, Clint."

"Actually almost four," he corrected sharply. "Why is it so crazy? Why is me loving you so hard for you to accept?"

"Because 'love' is for children, Clint. It's a stupid _childish_ notion," she shot back.

He strode across the lawn towards her, wrapping his hands around her arms, but not harshly. There was a gentleness in his hands that she'd grown used to over the last few months.

"Who was he, Natasha? What did he do to you?" he asked quietly.

She cut her gaze away.

"Who?" she asked, feigning ignorance.

"Whoever the asshole is that broke your heart," Clint clarified bluntly.

Alexi's face floated through her mind, but she forced the image away.

She opened her mouth, maybe to confess the truth. To tell him about Alexi like he'd told her about his childhood, about Barney, and about how Phil had saved his life.

But he suddenly stiffened, looking up and away.

"What is…do you hear that?" he asked as he let go of her arms and turned fully away, looking up at the sky.

She heard it too, planes, a lot of them.

She shielded her eyes from the early morning sun as she stared up at the sky with him. The first plane to come into sight was too far for her to even decipher what kind of plane it was. But next to her, Clint's entire body tensed.

"What do you see?" she asked.

"It can't be…" he muttered, dropping the hand that was shielding the sun from his eyes. "Natasha…"

Then they both froze, watching in horror as a bullets erupted out of the plane, tearing into something in its path. A few seconds later something dropped out of the bottom of the plane and Natasha found herself gripping Clint's arms so tightly her fingernails were cutting into his skin.

"Is that…"

Clint cut her off, turning sharply and gripping her arms tightly even as an explosion rocked the world around them.

"Get inside, wake up the others and get to the hospital," he ordered.

She nodded.

"Where are you going?" she demanded when he started to turn away.

He turned back and crushed his mouth against hers. Then he pulled away slightly, resting his forehead against hers.

"Those are Jap planes," he whispered. "I have to get up there," he told her. He kissed her one more time, desperately. "I love you," he stated firmly.

And then he turned and jogged away, flagging down a passing car full of other pilots.

She watched him go, mouth hanging open slightly, then she snapped into action, running up into the house where the others were already scrambling around frantically.

* * *

Natasha smiled wearily at the sailor who she'd just hooked up for a blood donation.

"I'll be back in a minute to check on you," she told him gently.

The fighting had stopped hours ago. Now they were sifting through the damage.

Anna appeared next to her, looking as exhausted as Natasha felt.

"Any sign of him?" Natasha asked.

Anna shook her head sadly and gave her a short hug.

"He'll turn up, Nat. He's the best pilot in the Navy."

Natasha could only nod, throat tightening.

"Natasha?"

Natasha turned sharply, recognizing the voice.

Phil Coulson, the man who might as well have been Clint's father, was standing a few feet away.

Natasha moved towards him immediately.

"Did you find him?" she asked, ignoring the catch in her voice.

Phil shook his head. Natasha looked away, blinking away a betraying wetness in her eyes.

"I talked to another pilot though, that said they thought they saw a plane start to go down in a field a good ways inland."

Natasha looked back at him, hope igniting in her chest.

"I was going to go find the crash site…see if…" he trailed off, clearing his throat.

"Can I come with you?" she asked desperately.

She couldn't just _wait_ here. She had to _do_ something _._ If he was out there, _hurt_ , she needed to go to him.

Phil gave her a warm, weary smile.

"That's why I came, my car is out front."

She nodded, turning to Anna who was waiting a few feet away.

"I have a blood donor behind that curtain, will you take him?"

Anna nodded immediately.

Natasha turned back to Phil.

"Let's go."

* * *

Clint woke abruptly.

He forced his eyes open, a groan of pain rising in his throat as the world came into focus around him.

His chest hurt. And his head, _God_ , his head…

Numb fingers ghosted against a nasty gash on his temple and he winced.

It was then that he realized he couldn't _breathe_ …

He fumbled with his harness, needing to release the pressure of the restraint.

Once he was free, he took a deep breath, only to cough when his battered chest protested.

Grimacing, and increasingly concerned about the fact that he couldn't seem to think straight, he decided to try and move, to go find help.

He looked around, found his cockpit cover shattered around him. So he climbed, more fumbled, his way free. He meant to climb down from the downed air craft gracefully, but in the end, he was just a sprawled heap on the grass.

The world spun around him and he couldn't bring it back into focus. When the gray that was shadowing his vision started to turn black…he couldn't fight it.

"There!" Natasha pointed at the mass of twisted metal she could see at the other end of the field they were driving by.

Immediately Phil jerked the wheel and drove them into the tall grass.

The time it took to cross the field felt like a lifetime. She leapt out of the car while it was still slowing to a stop.

"Clint!" she shouted, looking up at the mangled cockpit. But it was empty. "He's not here," she told Coulson, eyes scanning the area now. Phil was climbing up onto the wreckage, muttering about how no one should have been able to put this plane down safely with the amount of bullet damage it had suffered.

Natasha felt a wave of helpless frustration well up in her and she moved, ready to search every inch of this field for a clue as to where the missing pilot had gone.

Then she caught sight of the bottom of a boot peeking out from the behind the destroyed plane.

"Phil!" she shouted even as she ran. She saw a leg next, then a torso, then… "Clint!" she went to her knees next to him, fingers immediately going for his neck, checking for a pulse.

Phil appeared at her side, eyes wide and worried.

"He's alive," she announced, relief so powerful rushing through her that she nearly passed out right there. "He's alive."

"He's hurt," Phil observed. "We need to get him back."

Natasha nodded, hands fisting in Clint's shirt.

"I'll get the backseat cleared," Phil decided. "Then we'll move him."

She nodded again and Phil was gone.

Natasha dropped her head down to rest against Clint's.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I…" the words caught in her throat and before she had a chance to make a confession to a man that couldn't even _hear_ her, Phil was back.

"Let's go."

Natasha nodded and shifted to help when Phil threaded his arms beneath Clint's knees and shoulders. She supported the pilot's head as they moved and then she climbed into the backseat first, letting Clint's head rest in her lap.

"Just hold on, kid. Just keep fighting," Phil whispered to Clint before climbing into the driver's seat and speeding back towards the road.

* * *

Natasha rolled her neck wearily, brushing stray strands of hair out of her face as she checked Clint's face for the millionth time in the last two hours since they'd gotten him cleaned up and settled into this bed.

Miraculously, other than broken ribs, a busted knee and a _major_ concussion…he was okay. Better than most people would be after a plane crash. Though, according to Phil, Clint had somehow managed to more _land_ the plane than crash it, despite it being mangled by bullets.

Now they were just waiting, _hoping_ that he would wake up.

Wearily, she dropped her head down, resting her forehead on the mattress next to his hand, which she kept gripped in her own.

She started to drift, the merciful oblivion of sleep teasing her from just out of reach.

"You sleeping on the job?"

Natasha froze. Then slowly raised her head, looking up to the source of that voice, that familiar low rumble.

Half-lidded blue-gray eyes were groggily looking back at her.

"Hey," he greeted sleepily.

"Hey," she replied around the emotion that was trying its best to choke her.

One of his hands went for the bandage on his head and she moved quickly, catching it in her own.

"Leave it alone," she scolded, but she didn't let go of his hand.

"How'd you find me?" he asked, a faint grimace creasing his features before it faded.

"Phil," she told him. "Phil found you. He didn't stop until he found you."

Clint frowned a little, looking confused.

"But…" he trailed off.

"What?" she asked.

"You were there," he told her. "I heard you."

Natasha shifted, sitting on the edge of his bed.

"You could hear me?"

Clint frowned again, another grimace of pain fleetingly crossing his face.

"You apologized," he met her gaze then. "Why? Why did you apologize?"

She shifted, chewing the inside of her lip.

"Natasha…"

She closed her eyes, shaking her head. How did he _do_ that? How did he say her name like _that_ , like it was a whispered prayer?

"I was sorry," she started, then opened her eyes and looked down at him, "that I yelled at you."

He nodded slightly, accepting her answer.

Natasha hesitated and then tightened her grip on his hand.

"I was sorry," she went on, taking a deep breath, "that I didn't say it back."

She felt him go completely still next to her, barely even seemed to be breathing.

"Say what?" he asked quietly.

Natasha gave him a slight glare. He couldn't just make this _easy_ for her?

"Hey," he defended. "I said the actual words. The least you can do is say them back."

Of _course_ he wouldn't make it easy for her.

"And besides," he went on with an infuriating little smirk, "I'm _injured_. You can't get more romantic and cliché than a hospital bed confess-"

She silenced him by kissing him.

She pulled back a moment later.

"You talk too much," she accused.

He huffed a slight chuckle.

"It's been said."

"I love you," she stated abruptly, almost forcefully. He blinked and then smiled.

"Well that's good, cuz the whole unrequited love thing is way overrated."

"Clint?" she sighed, waiting for him to arch his eyebrows in question. "Stop talking."

He smirked.

"Make me."

So she did.

* * *

_Drop me a line, if you would. Even if you already did when this was originally posted in Snapshots :)_


	2. She Made A Different Call

_Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie or tv show in the works._

_Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

_Originally written for Clintasha Week 2016 on tumblr. Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine._

* * *

**_AU Scenario: Agent Romanoff was sent to kill Hawkeye, she made a different call._ **

* * *

Natasha sat back with a sigh on the cot in her Paris safe house. She took a drink from her glass of water even as she reached for the file next to her. She'd tossed it down onto the thin, scratchy blanket when she'd arrived a few hours ago. Now freshly showered and fed, she was ready to start planning.

She first took in the file cover. The words 'Top Secret' and 'Classified' were both stamped across it in bright red letters at haphazard angles. A name, moniker really, was printed in Coulson's neat handwriting on the file label.

_Hawkeye._

She flipped the file open. No picture to go off of, barely any sort of description. And what description there _was_ ended up being contradictory at best. It was based off of eye witness statements. She scanned the various descriptions they'd collected, shaking her head in something akin to admiration.

_He was young, practically a baby._

_He was older, at least 30._

_Dark hair, definitely a black or dark brown._

_Blonde, blonde like a surfer._

_Tall, he was at least 6 feet tall._

_He was average height, for a guy I guess._

_Short, the guy was short._

_Brown eyes._

_Blue eyes._

_He had green eyes._

_It was a woman, definitely a woman._

Either she had a master of disguise on her hands or _none_ of these people were actually describing her target. She was betting on the latter.

She flipped to the next page, his confirmed kill list, and thought back to her briefing with Coulson two days ago.

" _He's a ghost, Natasha. All these reports, none of them are consistent. There's not_ _ **one**_ _correlating factor. Tall, short. Old, young. Blue eyes, brown. You have nothing going into this. No idea who you're looking for. Except this: he's_ _ **dangerous**_ _. And he's_ _ **good**_ _."_

But she did know _one_ other thing. Hawkeye favored arrows. _Every_ single kill listed in his file – and there were almost 400 – was credited to him for one reason: The arrow left behind in the body.

It was dangerous, leaving a calling card. It meant when you got caught, every crime you'd done could be tied back to you. But, she had to admit, Hawkeye turned out to be an expert at _not_ getting caught. Or even _spotted_ apparently.

But that's why _she'd_ been assigned this hit. She was the best. She could find people that didn't want to be found. Red Room trained, she'd earned her stripes at a young age. But Phil had found her, had convinced her to defect. He'd shown her that she could use her formidable skills to do _good_ in the world and she'd latched onto that lifeline with both hands.

"So who are you, Hawkeye?" she whispered to the empty safe house, flipping to the last page of the file. There was a profile, built by SHIELD's psych team. It was supposed to help her identify him. It didn't help much. He was probably male. Probably 20 to 30 years old. Probably a sociopath. That was about it.

Not much to go on. All they really knew as that there was a man in danger here, Henri Moreau, and the contract had Hawkeye written all over it. It was his type of thing. High profile and _high_ paying.

She smirked and flipped the file closed.

She'd done more with less.

* * *

Hawkeye dropped through the skylight into his safe house. His landing wasn't all that graceful. He ended up stumbling to the left and having to catch himself on his hand. He stood with a grimace, hand going to his left side.

His last job had been a bitch. Or rather…his mark's security had been a bitch. Three cracked ribs and a stab wound later, his contract had been fulfilled, but he'd paid for it.

That had only been 4 days ago. No sooner had he confirmed his payment than he'd gotten wind of another hit, issued on a man named Henri Moreau in Paris. It was the biggest paycheck he'd seen offered in a while, so here he was.

He'd spent the last two days tracking his mark, planning when to make his move.

Moreau was making it easy. Nothing but private security. Always alone save for an assistant. Big house with a lot of entry points. And best of all…no family.

No wife. No kids. Nobody to bear witness or be traumatized by finding the body. It was better that way. It was better when there was no collateral damage. Cleaner. Easier.

Maybe the nightmares about this one wouldn't be so bad.

He made his way to the small kitchenette across the room and flipped open the first aid kit sitting on the counter. After unbuckling his quiver, he let it slide to the floor and tossed his bow up onto the counter behind the kit. A quick move later, his black t-shirt was a ball on the floor.

He looked down at the soiled, sopping mess of a bandage on his side and frowned.

He'd blown out his stitches _again_.

He peeled up the corner of the tape and pulled off the bloody bandage, tossing it into the sink to be disposed of later. He dug into the kit and pulled out tweezers, antiseptic, a needle and medical grade stitching thread, antibiotic ointment and another clean bandage.

Then he eased himself down onto the floor, leaning back against the counter.

Then he got to work.

* * *

Hawkeye woke up on the kitchen floor. He sat up slowly, hand going to the pristine bandage covering the stab wound on his side. The bottle of antiseptic had spilled. He picked it up with a curse and recapped it, preserving what little of the purifying liquid remained. The antibiotic tube was still open too. He searched the area for the cap and found it rolled halfway down the line of cabinets.

At least he'd finished his self-administered first aid before he'd passed out.

That was better than the alternative, which tended to be the case half the time.

He pushed to his feet, tossed the first aid equipment back into the kit and flipped it closed. Trash was disposed of next, then he dug into the back pack on the floor at the end of the counter, pulling out a clean t-shirt.

That on, he strapped on his quiver, grabbed his bow and headed towards the balcony, and the ladder stored on it that would lead to the roof.

Tonight was the night. Today would be spent making his final plans.

Then tonight he'd make his move, cash in on this contract and leave Paris behind until next time.

* * *

Natasha mingled her way through the multitude of guests at Moreau's dinner party. That she hadn't gotten a formal invitation hadn't mattered. She'd charmed her way in as a plus one easily enough. Her 'date' was getting her a drink.

She kept moving, kept smiling, kept scanning faces and assessing threats.

Tonight was the night, she was sure of it.

No assassin could resist an opening like this. A formal dinner party, guests coming and going. It was the perfect cover for infiltration.

 _She'd_ used it for the same end, after all.

But so far, she'd seen no one that stood out. No one that seemed like a ruthless killer.

A shoulder bumped hers, and she glanced at the offender.

A young waiter, dirty blonde hair, blue gray eyes. He was fumbling with the tray of hors d'oeuvres in his hands, trying not to drop it as a result of their unexpected contact.

" _Je suis désolé_ ," he apologized in perfect French, judging by the inflection, she'd guess he was born and raised here.

She gave him a smile and a small shake of her head, telling him without words that she wouldn't hold it against her. He stared at her for an extra moment, eyes widening as he looked her over. She was used to it, so she endured it with a smile even as she studied him in return. A little shorter than average, lean and lithely built. He was probably a recreational athlete of some sort. She could faintly see a black undershirt showing through the white dress shirt he wore under his serving coat. An act of rebellion? Maybe. He was young, probably only a little older than her. Moonlighting as a server for the extra money.

All at once he seemed to snap out of his daze and gave her a slight nod and went on his way, offering his tray to guests as he moved. She put the waiter out of her mind and continued on her way.

* * *

Hawkeye made his way casually out of the ball room under the guise of offering the last of the food on his serving tray to the security outside the door.

Then, with some excuse about needing a break to get away from the rich assholes in the ballroom, he jogged up the stairs to the second floor with their chuckles of understanding and comradery in his wake.

Once safely out of sight, he took off in a jog. He slid into the housekeeper's closet at the end of the hall and stripped out of the server's jacket. Tie and dress shirt followed and he stepped up onto the shelving unit on the wall. He pushed the vent in the corner of the ceiling up and out of the way, then reached in, pulling out his quiver first, then his bow. He strapped his quiver in place and slid his bow string over his head. Then he balled up the server's clothes and stuffed them up into the vent.

He moved back to the door and blew out a slow, calming breath.

He couldn't believe it. It was her, the goddamned Black Widow. She was _here_. Probably for _him_. Rumor had it that she'd gone straight a couple years back. She supposedly worked for SHIELD now.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath.

He hadn't dared stay down at the party a moment longer than he had to. He'd passed her initial inspection but he wasn't willing to take any chances. Logic and self preservation dictated he take off, leave this contract in his rearview.

But he'd already taken half payment, formally accepted the job. It wasn't good business to leave jobs unfinished and to issue refunds.

Plus, he'd always liked a challenge.

He eased the closet door open. Finding the hallway clear, he slipped back out. A few steps had him in the guest bedroom across the hall and then he was at the window. He already knew this side of the house had a blind spot, _this_ particular stretch of wall being _that_ blind spot. He climbed out, looking to his left for the drainpipe he knew to be there.

A short leap later and he was climbing.

He'd wait on the roof for the party to clear out. Then, when Moreau was alone and the infamous Black Widow had taken her leave, he'd make his move.

* * *

Natasha was careful to keep her irritation off her face as the party thinned out. As casually as if she lived in the house, she left the ballroom and slipped upstairs. She may not have been able to spot Hawkeye at the party, but she _knew_ he was here somewhere. She could feel it in her gut.

So she'd wait for him to make his move. She'd stop him. With any luck Moreau wouldn't even know he was in danger tonight.

She hid out in a housekeeper's closet, listening to the house go to bed. It was well past 2 am before she silently ventured into the hallway. Footsteps on the stairs had her slipping across the hall into a guest room she was sure was empty. She hadn't heard anyone enter it from her hide out across the hall.

She was listening at the door for the way to be clear again when she felt it.

A slight breeze.

The back of her neck prickled.

She spun, eyes widening in surprise when a black arrow imbedded in the door where her head had just been.

She looked to the window, eyes narrowing predatorily as she saw her target standing just inside the window, bow in hand.

With the moonlight streaming in behind him and the room being dark otherwise, he was nothing but a silhouette. But Natasha didn't need to know what he looked like to kill him.

She kicked off her heels and opted for the direct approach.

He shifted into a combat stance as she charged him, bow held loosely in his right hand.

He swept out with it as she got into range, aiming for her head.

She ducked, spinning low and sweeping her leg at his feet.

He jumped, clearing her leg and coming at her with his knee angling towards her chin.

She blocked the blow with her arms and leapt up, slamming a palm into his right wrist, trying to get him to drop the bow. But apparently his grip was made of iron, because other than a slight snarl, he didn't seem all that affected.

She scaled him then, planting a foot on his thigh and then hooking her thigh around his neck. Once she had that leverage, she brought the other leg up and trapped him.

Finally, he dropped the bow, hands going up to dig into her thighs in an attempt to pry them apart. Instead, she tightened her hold, knowing she was cutting off both oxygen and bloodflow.

He spun, slamming her back into the wall and then he backpedaled, spinning hard at the last moment and slamming her torso into the bedpost.

It was a risky move on his part, because she could have accidently _killed_ him when she was dislodged. She didn't though, maybe it was stupid and reckless. But she hadn't had a good fight in _ages_. And Hawkeye was _good_.

She picked herself up from the floor and met his gaze across the small space that separated them.

Blue gray eyes. Dirty blonde hair.

" _You_ ," she accused lowly. The damned waiter. He was the damned _waiter_.

The little smirk that turned up the corner of his mouth lit her blood on fire. No more playing around. She'd kill the bastard just for _fooling_ her.

She launched herself at him.

He was good, and he was fast. He blocked most of her attacks and met her almost blow for blow. She jumped, torqueing her body into an aerial round house. He leaned back in the same moment, hand bracing on the floor and legs scisorring up to lock with the one she had cutting through the air above him.

She couldn't even take a moment to be _shocked_ before he was spinning sharply, throwing her _hard_ to the ground.

But she was Red Room trained and pain didn't exist.

She reached to her thigh, pulling one of the knives she had hidden under the folds of her dress.

The next exchange was too fast for her to do anything but act on instinct.

She ended up slicing him across the palm and then again across the chest, both shallow, but enough that she finally felt herself getting the upper hand.

It wasn't until she got her knee past his defenses to slam into his left side that she knew she had him.

He went pale, stumbling back and dropping to one knee with a growl of pain. His hand went to support his left side.

She dove at him, ready to finish him.

But the instinct to survive was a powerful thing. He blocked her attack with a desperate sort of intensity and shoved her back.

Then he _ran_.

He practically stumbled over his own feet to the window, snatched his bow off the floor as he went, and then all but _dove_ out into the night.

Natasha ran to follow, she saw the drainpipe and looked up. He was already climbing over the edge of the roof.

She followed without a breath of hesitation.

She hit the rooftop and spotted him sprinting across it, nearly to the other side already. She pursued.

He hit the edge at a dead run, launching himself across the very wide alley between this house and the next. He barely made it, _barely_. She saw him land jarringly, tucking into a painful looking roll before coming back to his feet and taking off again.

She slowed her own run and came to a stop at the edge of the roof.

She knew her own limits. In a dress with no shoes, there was no way she could make that jump.

But that was okay.

She smiled as she wiped at the blood leaking out of her mouth from a lucky hit he'd landed.

She knew his face now.

 _Now_ the chase was on.

* * *

It took her two weeks to find his safe house…well his _six_ safe houses. He was paranoid and unpredictable about which one he would go to each night.

She'd banked on him not being willing to leave the contract incomplete. That was bad for business after all. He was likely waiting for the dust to settle to make a move again.

She had spotted him coming out of safe house number 3 that morning. She'd lost him an hour later. Now she was trying to explain to Coulson why this was taking so long.

"You nailed it before, Phil," she sighed. "He's _good_ and he's a ghost."

" _The Council is getting impatient. It's been two weeks,"_ Phil replied.

"I know, _believe_ me. But the guy has _no_ pattern. Every time I catch sight of him, I _lose_ him before I have a chance to make a clean move on him."

" _The Council would like me to urge you not to worry so much about making it clean."_

Didn't _that_ sound just like the Council.

"Phil, I'm not putting civilians in the crossfire."

" _I told them you'd say that,"_ Phil sounded like he was smiling. _"I trust you, Natasha. Do what you do. I'll deal with the Council."_

She nodded even though he couldn't see her and ended the call.

Then she just stood there, in the alley she'd been taking cover in.

Where would he go tonight? Her best bet was if she could move on him _in_ his safehouse, where no one else was around.

She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath.

 _Safe house 1_.

Some instinct told her that was where he'd be tonight.

Having nothing else to go on, she trusted her gut.

* * *

Hawkeye knew she was watching. He'd felt her gaze as he came in through the skylight.

He had to give her credit, she was _good_. It had taken every skill he had to shake her every time she caught up with him.

He should run now, lose her again.

But he didn't.

He was tired. He was _so_ goddamned tired. Tired of running. Tired of this life. Tired of always looking over his shoulder.

So he let her come.

He was standing in the kitchen when she dropped in through the skylight.

For a long moment he just stood there, back to her, leaning against the sink. She didn't move, just stared at his back.

"So you're here to kill me?" he asked quietly.

A pause, then a very simple, honest,

"Yes."

He nodded wearily, feeling the burn of fever from the stab wound that had festered. He'd stolen antibiotics, but they'd done nothing except give him the strength to keep moving forward.

He turned to face her then, meeting her sharp green gaze across the dark room.

He reached to his back, drawing his combat knife.

"I won't go down easy," he promised.

She nodded slightly.

"I know."

He nodded back.

"Then let's get to it so you can be on your way."

* * *

Natasha narrowed her gaze. That was an odd thing to say for a man who'd just promised not to make it easy.

He was talking like he knew he would lose, like he expected it…even accepted it.

He knew he would die tonight, but still, he would fight.

He was a survivor.

Natasha felt something in her gut tighten.

She knew what it was to be a survivor. She knew what it was to accept your death, but not be willing to meet it quietly.

She _knew_.

She moved forward, holding his gaze.

He didn't look away, kept his eyes steady on hers, waiting. Waiting for her to attack.

When she did, it wasn't a long fight. There was obviously something very _wrong_ with him physically. Because in the end she ended up with his knife in _her_ hand, her knee on his sternum, and the blade against his throat.

He _had_ put up a valiant, if not unexpectedly _weak_ , fight.

She pressed the blade down, ready to finally end this.

He stared steadily up at her and waited.

That something deep in her gut tightened again as she met his eyes.

There was something broken in his gaze, something she hadn't seen before.

"Just do it," he whispered, eyes steady on hers, waiting, not fighting anymore. "Just end it."

 _End it_.

She saw it then, saw it in his eyes. He hated himself. He hated who he was _, what_ he was.

He'd been waiting for this day, for someone to finally be good enough to beat him. For someone to be stronger than his own survival instinct.

He'd been waiting for _her_.

She hesitated.

She knew, better than she knew _anything_ , what it felt like to hate yourself like that. She had been _him_ when Coulson found her. She had been waiting for the day somebody was finally better. For someone to end it.

She also knew, had been taught by Coulson, that feeling that way…it meant there was something left. It meant that her soul _hadn't_ been lost to darkness. It meant there had still been something worth saving.

She pulled the blade away from his neck, not even sure what choice she was making even as she made it.

His eyes darkened in confusion as she backed away, sitting heavily against the kitchen cabinet. He just stayed there, sprawled on the floor, breathing ragged and a little labored. His confusion was practically a tangible thing in the room.

"Why?" he finally asked, voice quiet and wary.

He thought she might want something from him. And maybe she did, but not what he'd expect.

"I don't know," she admitted. But then, she _knew_. "I think that maybe…you're more valuable to the world alive."

She heard his breath catch and when he replied, there was a weight to his tone,

"Then you obviously don't know me that well."

Natasha was sure then. That she'd made the right call. There was no pride in his tone, no bloodthirsty arrogance. It was something else, it was self-loathing.

"How did I not _see_ you?" she asked with a confused shake of her head. "At Moreau's?" because looking at him now, she could see the killer in him. She could see the instincts and training written in his expression. She could feel the predatory aura bleeding into the air around him.

He huffed a slight laugh.

"I'm really good at blending in," he answered.

Natasha figured that was probably the understatement of the _century._

"What's your name?" she asked quietly, watching him wearily roll to his hands and knees and all but collapse against the wall opposite her.

He raised his gaze to hers, meeting it tiredly and shaking his head slightly.

"I don't have a name anymore."

She tilted her head slightly.

"Everyone has a name, just because you don't use it, doesn't mean it doesn't exist. I'm…"

"I know who you are," he interrupted. "You're Natasha Romanoff, formerly Natalia Romanova…the Black Widow."

She arched an impressed eyebrow.

"You _are_ good."

He shrugged a shoulder, dismissing the compliment.

"Pays to know all the players," he explained.

She studied him for a moment and then asked again, "What's your name?"

He shook his head.

"That guy, who I was, he doesn't exist anymore….so his name doesn't matter."

"If that were true, if _that_ guy was really gone…you'd have killed me the moment I hesitated. Instead…" she waved demonstratively between them. "I think he's still there."

Hawkeye met her gaze again and for a long moment they just stared at each other, searching each other's eyes.

Then something in his eyes shifted, a brief spark of light…a beacon, a tiny flare of something like hope.

"Barton," he told her softly, the name obvious foreign on his lips after so much time, "Clint Barton."

Natasha felt her mouth turn up in a slight smile.

"Clint Barton," she tried it out on her tongue. It was a good name. "Barton…have you heard of SHIELD?"

He smirked a little.

"I'm pretty sure they want me dead," he gave her a significant look.

She shrugged ruefully.

"They did, _do_ …but I think maybe I've got a better option. Kind of what you'd call a win-win."

He stared at her, curiosity bubbling up in his gaze. After a long moment, he titled his head, the light she'd seen in his eyes brightening.

"What'd you have in mind?" he asked.

Natasha smiled.

* * *

_Drop me a line to let me know what you think :)_


	3. She Made A Different Call PART 2

_Disclaimer: I do not own "The Avengers" or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie or tv show in the works._

_Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism, remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

_So after the "She Made A Different Call" AU oneshot got such a positive reception, I decided to do a part 2. This part is about Phil and Clint and shows that they were always meant to find each other, just like Clint and Nat were._

_This is unbeta'd and off the cuff so all mistakes are my own and you have my apologies :) Enjoy._

* * *

**_AU Scenario: Agent Romanoff was sent to kill Hawkeye, she made a different call._ **

* * *

Phil stood, arms crossed, outside the detention cell that was currently housing their newest…recruit? He supposed that was the correct term. Barton wasn't exactly a prisoner, despite his current location in a _cell._ It was a precaution, just until Barton was vetted and approved for training.

At the moment, the assassin was being treated for a fairly serious infection by Dr. Dan Wilson, one of the few doctors Phil knew could handle a guy like Barton without getting intimidated. Romanoff was in the cell with them, sitting casually on the cot next to Barton's feet. Dan was keeping the tension in the room from getting too thick by continuously scolding the young man before him for not getting proper medical treatment after getting _stabbed_.

When he was done doing what he could, Dan stood and left the cell. He gave Phil a long look and then sighed.

"He's an idiot, treating a stab wound with antiseptic and what essentially amounts to a _Band-Aid_." Dan rolled his eyes and then went on, "He did at least _attempt_ to stitch himself up," the doctor admitted, "but from what I could tell he'd ripped those at least two or three times already. He's dehydrated, exhausted, and burning with fever, but he'll survive."

"Thanks, Dan," Phil gave his friend a grateful smile.

"Yeah, well, I already told him, but I'll tell you, those stitches are the final ones. He blows those and I'm letting him bleed to death, got it?"

Phil nodded solemnly. It was a Dan-speak warning to keep the kid in a bed and not immediately throw him into sparring or obstacle courses.

"I'll hold off Todd's evaluation for a few days," Phil promised.

Dan tossed one more look back into the cell and then shook his head, muttered something about 'idiots thinking they're doctors' and then strode away.

Phil looked back into the cell as well. He curiously watched Natasha say something to Barton, pitching her voice too low for Phil to hear. Then she stood, heading out of the cell.

She nodded to the guard to close the door.

"He's going to get some rest. I'm pretty sure Dan slipped him a sedative because he was fading pretty quick," she told him even as she crossed her arms and looked back into the cell through the window on the door.

"So," Phil said casually, "tell me."

Natasha hesitated, rubbing a finger at a spot over her eyebrow and then crossing her arms again.

"He's not what I expected," she admitted. "He's hard, he's fierce, he's dangerous but…" she shook her head slowly.

"But what?" Phil prodded.

"He's _broken_ , Phil," she stated. "And not like I was broken. With me, it was mental. It was about control, about _taking_ control of my life and my choices. With him…"

"It's deeper," Phil realized.

She nodded.

"I had him, a knife at his throat and he just… _gave up_. He stopped fighting and told me to just _do it_. To end it."

Phil frowned, watching what he could see of Barton's face through the window. The archer's eyes were still open, but only barely. He was fighting the sedation.

"Do you think he's suicidal?" he asked seriously. The last thing they needed running around base was a dangerous man looking to die.

But Natasha shook her head.

"I don't think so. He fought me. Up until that moment, he _fought_ to survive. He wasn't _trying_ to die, Phil. But he wasn't afraid of it. He accepted it. I think…" she hesitated now and Phil tore his eyes away from Barton's face to look at her.

"What?" he asked.

"I think _he_ thinks that he deserved it."

"To die?"

She nodded.

Phil looked back at Barton now. That was interesting. Romanoff's analysis suggested deep guilt. It suggested that maybe Barton wasn't the sociopath they'd assumed him to be.

He needed to know more. He needed to talk to the man himself. But Barton's eyes were closed now, features relaxed in sleep.

"Do you think we can do it?" Natasha asked, drawing Phil's attention back once more.

"Do what?"

"Help him?"

Phil glanced at her, surprised by the blunt question.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I guess that's going to depend on whether or not he wants to be helped."

She nodded, eyes still on the window and the man that lay beyond it.

"Natasha, you're fixating."

She sighed and didn't even try to deny it.

"I know."

"Why?"

It wasn't like her to get invested like this, to take a personal interest.

"Because there was something _there_ , Phil. Something worth saving in him, I _saw_ it. And if we don't do something, whatever light he has left is gonna burn out."

"But why are _you_ fixating, Natasha?"

"Because I _get it_ , Phil. I get _him_ and I can't just walk away."

Phil nodded.

"Okay," he agreed. "So we'll do what we can. But for now, he's sleeping. And you should be to."

She reluctantly nodded and together they headed away from the cell.

But once he'd seen Natasha towards the residence hall, Phil found himself inexplicably drawn back to the detention area. Once there, he found himself standing outside the door to Barton's cell, watching the young man through the window.

Something, some churning in his gut, had him motioning the guard to let him in.

"Sir, are you…"

"Just open the door," Phil ordered.

The guard immediately obeyed, responding to the authority in Phil's tone.

So then Phil found himself closed in the cell with the unconscious assassin with no idea why he was there.

He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, and settled his gaze on Barton's face.

He was young, younger than Phil had expected. He looked to be around Natasha's age, early twenties at the most. And in sleep, he seemed almost…innocent.

But he knew for a fact that _innocent_ was not a term that could be applied to the young man before him.

No, Clint Barton was most definitely not –

Phil frowned when Barton's head twitch. He slowly uncrossed his arms and straightened away from the wall when Barton shifted again and mumbled something indecipherable under his breath.

Phil found himself stepping forward.

Then Barton bodily flinched and Phil was suddenly several steps closer.

More muttered words and Phil found himself reaching out a hand. His touch to Barton's shoulder was light, but he might as well have slapped him for the dramatic reaction he got.

Barton was up like a shot, crab crawling back on the cot until his back slammed against the cell wall.

"Whoa, whoa, easy!" Phil put both his hands up in a non-threating gesture.

In the next several seconds, he came to many conclusions.

There was a wild look in Barton's eyes, suggesting he was caught between awake and asleep. The sedative was probably muddling things even more. But what Phil saw the most clearly, what hit him the hardest as Barton stared at him uncomprehending, a shaking hand raised defensively…was the fear.

Barton, in that moment, was _afraid_.

"You're okay," Phil found himself stating calmly, voice pitched low. "You're safe here, Barton."

The archer blinked at him, fighting off the sedation and clawing his way towards reality.

"W-where…"

"You're at a SHIELD compound in New York," Phil told him carefully. "Natasha Romanoff brought you in."

Barton blinked again, a hand rubbing at his eyes. He was still crammed into a ball in the corner of the cot, back pressed against the wall. But the shaking had stopped and when he looked at Phil again, the cobwebs had cleared.

"You're Coulson," Barton stated.

Phil nodded.

"I'm Agent Romanoff's handler and I'll be evaluating you going forward."

Barton unfolded himself a little from the defensive ball he was in. His knees dropped down from where they were huddled against his chest until he was sitting cross legged instead. He stared at Phil across the short space between them, walls building in his gaze before Phil's eyes.

He blinked heavily and seemed to momentarily waver, reminding Phil that he was still fighting the effects of sedation.

"You can go back to sleep, Barton. I'll leave you alone." Phil motioned towards the door, but didn't move yet. Something in his gut churned again, urging him to stay.

Barton didn't reply, but he also didn't move, didn't lay back down. It wasn't an invitation to stay or a request for him to leave. So Phil just stayed where he was, uncertain.

"She was supposed to kill you, you know," Phil found himself saying.

Barton's response was silence.

"She went out on a limb to bring you in."

Still, nothing.

"Everybody is watching, waiting for you to prove her wrong. Waiting to see you fail."

Barton remained stoic, expression as blank as a sheet of steel.

"So what are you going to do?"

Barton just sat there, gaze fixed unflinchingly on Phil's.

"I want her to be right about you," Phil stated quietly, not breaking his gaze from Barton's. He knew better than to show that kind of weakness. Barton was a predator; he would look for an angle he could exploit.

For several long, tense moments, they just stared at each other. Then, to Phil surprise, it was Barton who broke the standoff.

"Why?" the archer asked bluntly. "What the hell does it matter to you?"

Phil considered his answer carefully, sensing that this could be a turning point. What he said would determine both their path's going forward.

He almost said something about Natasha, about caring about her future, her career. But…it didn't ring true. Natasha wasn't why he was in here. She wasn't why he'd come back, why he'd felt an odd draw to this cell.

This wasn't about Natasha at all. It was all about Barton and a gut feeling Phil couldn't shake. It was about Natasha's words less than an hour ago.

" _He's broken, Phil."_

He could see it, that brokenness, expertly hidden just below the surface of Barton's steely gaze.

" _I think he thinks that he deserved it."_

He held Barton's hard gaze with his own, doing his best to convey his sincerity when he finally responded.

"It matters to me, Barton, because just because _you_ don't think you deserve a second chance…doesn't mean you shouldn't get one." Barton's gaze remained hard and shielded, so Phil just pushed on, "And just because _you_ think you're not worth it, doesn't mean you aren't."

Barton's gaze stayed steady on his, giving nothing away. He was hard, just like Natasha had said. He was made of steel, forged in fire. But Phil forced himself to look past the surface, to whatever it was Barton was trying so hard to hide.

Then he saw it. It was there, in Barton's eyes. It wasn't even hidden, not really. It was there, plain as day if you knew where to look.

Barton really believed it. He believed he wasn't worth it, that he didn't deserve this chance he was being given.

Phil felt something in his chest tighten.

What had _happened_ to this kid?

Phil found himself going on before he even realized he'd decided to speak.

"Just because _you_ think you're beyond saving, Barton, _doesn't_ _mean you_ _are_."

In the time it took Phil to take a breath, all Barton's shields faltered. And then, for barely a moment, Phil _saw him_. He saw the real Clint Barton, the one hidden behind the unbreakable shield of glares and scowls. He saw a twenty something year old kid who had been alone for far too long. He saw a kid had been beaten down and _broken_ until he'd been forced to shield himself with armor. He saw a young man that hated himself _so much_ he actually believed he deserved to die.

Then a breath later, the walls were back in place, twice as strong as they had been before. And Clint Barton was once again shielded behind the impenetrable armor of Hawkeye.

"I'm going to fight for you, Barton." Phil stated firmly, a fire igniting in his chest. He would do whatever he had to, for however long he needed to, in order to give this kid a chance. He would fight for him because Phil had a horrible feeling _no one_ else ever had. "But _you_ have to fight too. You promise to fight, and I'll fight with you."

Barton's gaze was steady on his and Phil saw a matching fire ignite in the archer's gaze.

"Will you?" Phil asked seriously. "Will you fight?"

"Why are you doing this?" Barton asked instead of answering. Phil recognized the question for what it was. He was trying to figure out Phil's angle, trying to figure out what Phil wanted from him. He wanted to know if that price was worth the payout.

"Honestly, I don't know, kid," Phil admitted. "All I know is my gut is telling me that you are _worth it_." Something shifted in Barton's gaze at his words, so Phil pressed on. "And the _only_ thing I'm ever going to ask of you is this: _do your best_. Do your _best_ to do your best, every second of every day, starting right now. You do that, and I promise you, I will never give up on you."

Barton stared at him, a tragic mixture of absolute disbelief, world-weary wariness, and faint _hope_ swirling in his eyes. It wasn't right, Barton was too _young_ to be that jaded. Natasha was right, there was _something here_. There was something in this kid that needed to be saved before it was too late.

"What do you say? You up for a fight, kid?"

Barton blew out a slow breath, gaze heavy on Phil's. Then he slowly nodded.

And somehow, without saying a word, Barton was able to speak with nothing but his eyes. And Phil heard him as clearly as if he'd shouted.

_I'll fight until I've got no fight left._

* * *

_Well? Did that live up to expectations for Phil and Clint's meeting in this alternate timeline?_


	4. Bouclier Academy AU Part 1 (High School AU)

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works._

_Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

_So I posted this on ff.net a long time ago and somehow forgot to cross post! my apologies! It has 3 complete parts and all 3 will go up today._

_This AU have two main story arcs - Clint and Phil coming together and then later Natasha showing up. Now, I was gonna wait to post any of it until I had the entire first arc written, but since it's shaping up to be thousands and thousands of words long (and that's just arc 1)_

_Now, this is the oft' done High School AU! All the Avengers will appear, but this story, make no mistake, is about Clint, even more so Clint and Phil - because this is me and that's what I do ;) Nat won't be showing up for quite a while, but she WILL show up._

_Anyway, enough from me. Check it out, let me know what you think. If you like it, tell your friends lol._

_As usual with these AUs these characters appear as they are portrayed in the VPU and this is unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine._

**_Trigger Warning: Child abuse_ **

* * *

Teenagers. Pack animals in their truest form. Sure, there were the occasional anomalies. The outliers. The boys or girls that tended to be lone wolves. But even then, many times, Phil had found, those 'loners' tended to band together at least to the same areas of the school yard.

Here, though, at Bouclier Academy, the local populous seemed to defy the norms Phil had come to expect in his years as a high school guidance counselor. There were jocks – like the tall lean blonde wearing a Bouclier Avenger's baseball hat – mingling with intellects – like the slight young man with a mop of curly black hair and a pair of glasses he kept removing to gesture with as he talked – and further, interacting with a 'rich kid' – he knew Tony Stark on sight, even if he'd never met him. The three young men – Tony he knew to be a junior – talked amicably, obviously friends. Even as Phil watched a fourth jogged up to join their group – a tall, broad youth with long blonde hair and booming voice Phil could hear clear across the yard.

A horn honked angrily off to his left and Phil turned. He watched a youth on a too small bike weave daringly through the parking lot, cutting off cars and narrowly avoiding other students. He was moving fast, seemingly unconcerned about his risk of hitting anything or anyone. He nearly clipped a boy in a letterman's jacket who looked immediately furious.

"Watch it Barton!" the boy yelled, but the kid on the bike – Barton – didn't even slow. Instead, he jumped the bike over the curb to the sidewalk with nothing more than a twitch of his body and slid to a stop at the metal rack with a squeal of rubber. Barton tossed his bike into place without bothering to lock it and then swung a worn purple and black backpack off his back and started digging around in it.

Before Phil could see if he found what he was looking for, a voice at Phil's right drew his attention.

"You must be Phillip Coulson."

Phil blinked and tore his eyes away from Barton to look the woman next to him.

"Phil," he corrected lightly, shifting bag to his left hand so he could hold out his right. The woman, her dark hair pulled back in a smart bun and her eyes sharp and intelligent, nodded and shook his hand.

"Maria Hill, Assistant Headmaster. You can call me Maria. I'm sorry I wasn't here when you interviewed, but Headmaster Fury spoke very highly of you."

Phil nodded, recognizing her name.

"You're the one that set up the scholarship program," he realized. "For the local orphanages."

She smiled.

"I was just the facilitator. The program was conceived by two other staff members, the Athletics coach, Todd Bryan and the nurse, Dan Wilson."

Phil nodded. He had read a lot about the scholarship program Bouclier Academy had enacted several years ago. Bouclier was a private school, the tuition reflected that clearly. But four years ago, two of the staff – Todd Bryan and Dan Wilson – had proposed an idea to use the schools excess funds – usually used for lavish student events – to create a scholarship program for the two local orphanages, Waverly Home for Boys and the Visyachaya Stroka, a home for girls. The girls' home was newer, built by a Russian Couple who had decided to use their considerable fortune to offer the orphaned and abandoned girls of the area a place where they would learn propriety. The Waverly Home then became The Waverly Home for Boys.

Over the years, Phil knew, Bouclier's scholarship program had given several young men and woman an opportunity to go to college – one had even gone on to Harvard – when otherwise they might not have even graduated high school.

"If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your office," Maria offered.

At Phil's nod, she started towards the school building. He fell into step with her, eyes straying once again to the young man with the purple backpack. He had retrieved a spiral notebook, also purple, and was holding it in is teeth as he continued to search his bag.

"Mr. Barton," Maria called out as they moved past him.

Suddenly a set of sharp, blue gray eyes – one of the ringed with vague remnants of a bruise – were fixed on them, first on Maria warily then on Phil with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. He didn't bother to remove the spiral bound notebook from his mouth as he watched them.

"Aren't you supposed to be in morning detention?" Maria asked with an arched eyebrow.

Barton's own blonde eyebrow arched above his left eye and he tossed a look around. As clearly as if he'd spoken out loud, Phil felt like he could hear the teen's response. The eyebrow and the glance around…

 _I'm here_ , the look said, _what more do you want?_

Maria tutted and looked pointedly towards the school building.

Barton sighed audibly around his notebook and made no effort to hide his eye roll as he started off towards the school, one hand still digging into his bag.

"With some haste, Mr. Barton, unless you want to extend your _afternoon_ detention by the amount of time you missed this morning," Maria urged.

Phil heard Barton vaguely mutter something around his notebook then he pulled it from his mouth and jammed it back into his bag, taking off at a jog.

"That was Clint Barton," Maria informed Phil as they followed Barton's path at a less hurried pace. "A sophomore with a lack of concern for…anything it seems. You'll be seeing a lot of him, I'm sure."

Phil watched Barton disappear into the building ahead of them.

"I'd like to meet with all the students, individually," Phil said by way of reply as they finally drew near the large double entry doors. "Coming in at the middle of the school year puts me behind the curve, so to speak, and I'd like to get a lay of the land as soon as possible."

Maria nodded.

"I'll draw up a schedule," she assured. "The former counselor helped the seniors with college applications last semester, but they'll start getting acceptance letters soon. So we'll start you with them and work through the grade levels."

Phil nodded.

Clint Barton was a sophomore. It would likely be days at least before he got to him. Some instinct, a feeling in his gut, was telling him that Barton needed to be a priority.

"Barton," Phil announced as they moved into the halls. "I'd like to start with Barton."

He was intrigued by the vague smirk that curved up the corner of Maria's mouth.

"What?" Phil asked, confused. He waited while Maria unlocked an office door and pushed it open. Then she handed him the key.

"Starting the day with Clint Barton?" she replied. "You're braver than most."

Phil frowned in confusion.

"You'll see," she replied with a slight chuckle. "I'll have him sent to you after homeroom."

Phil nodded in thanks and started to enter his new office, Maria's hand on his arm stopped him.

The humor in her expression had faded and her eyes were serious now as she looked at him.

"Clint can be… _difficult,_ infuriating even. But he's…" she sighed, something in her gaze softening. "He's been through a lot. I would highly recommend reading his file before you meet with him."

Phil nodded and she let him go, moving down the hall without another word to him.

He watched her for a moment, saw her scold a few students for loitering around the water fountains and then she disappeared into the main office.

With a sigh, Phil moved further into his office and dropped his worn leather briefcase onto the desk. He sat and spun his chair to face the large file cabinet.

He ended up having to stand again to access the top drawer and a few moments later he had a file labeled _'Barton, C.'_ in his hand.

It was _thick_.

He sat back at his desk and flipped it open.

Both sides of the file consisted of thick stack of paper clipped to the file cover. On the left, it looked like his transcript, the previous counselor's notes, and what looked like a stack of doctor's notes. On the right, it was a stack of disciplinary notices…a _thick_ stack considering the kid had only been attending Bouclier for a year and a half.

Phil flipped through the stack of reprimands. Barton was a jack of all trades when it came to getting into trouble. He had notices for everything from fighting to cutting classes to cheating – though Phil was intrigued to notice that Barton seemed to fervently deny the last of those.

The date on the first of the reprimands caught his eye. It was dated January of last year. Before that, there was nothing. Not even a slap on the wrist. Confused, and wondering if Barton had perhaps started mid school year, he turned his attention to the other half of the file.

He scanned Barton's transcript.

He saw preliminary grades from the beginning of last school year – Barton's ninth grade year – but then there was nothing from October to January. No grades, no attendance count, nothing…nothing but a hand written notation.

_Hospitalized: October-December_

Then the grades picked up again with the start of the spring semester. They were all over the place. A's to F's to incompletes. He'd had to attend summer school, to make up for the months he'd missed. The grades had then steadied out to a solid C average.

Phil looked back up at the beginning of the transcript.

Barton had held straight A's when he started at Bouclier…now he seemed to hold steady at barely passing. His eyes fell on the handwritten notation again.

_Hospitalized: October-December_

An illness perhaps, or an injury. Whatever it was, it seemed to have been the turning point.

Remembering the doctor's notes, Phil flipped through the pages until he found them.

The doctor's note was pretty basic, merely excusing Barton from school for the duration of his hospital stay. But the former counselor had attached a notation to it.

Phil read it quickly, feeling suddenly as if he'd had ice water dumped over his head.

Barton had been stabbed, in the chest, by his own brother, Barney Barton. Barney Barton had been a senior at Bouclier at the time – he'd also been one of the first students brought in through the scholarship program – and had disappeared after the incident.

Barton had nearly died and had spent those months in the hospital recovering.

"Jesus," Phil breathed, dropping the papers down flat again and taking a moment to absorb what he'd learned. No wonder Barton's grades had taken a nose dive.

The homeroom bell suddenly rang through the halls and then there were masses of students moving around, coming in from outside to find their homeroom class. Phil knew that his time was dwindling. Homeroom wouldn't take long and then Barton would be here.

He found the most recent of the former Counselor's notes on his meetings with Barton and read over it.

It was about what he expected from a kid who had experienced a trauma like that. Anti-social tendencies. Anger issues. Attitude problems. The former Counselor's notes were frustrated. He clearly hadn't gotten anywhere with Barton and by his last days there, he'd apparently been fed up. Phrases like _'lost cause'_ and _'waste of time'_ were peppered throughout. He'd, by the end, been content to write Barton off.

Phil was suddenly very glad the man had been abruptly fired mid school year, leaving this position open for Phil.

Phil looked up when he sensed a presence in his doorway.

Clint Barton was blinking back at him.

For a moment, they just sized each other up.

Barton was on the smaller side, perhaps a bit short for his age, and thin. But there was lithe, lean muscle evident in his bare forearms. His light blue dress shirt – part of the Bouclier uniform – was ill fitting, probably a size too big at least. It was only half tucked in and the sleeves were rolled sloppily up to his elbows. The required tie was _there_ , but the knot hung loosely around Barton's neck and looked like it had been tied _once_ long ago and had just been loosened and tightened repeatedly after that. His navy blue uniform pants were big too, hanging low on his hips and barely held in place by a belt. There was a rip on one of the knees that Phil was fairly certain put the pants out of dress code. But if none of the other staff said anything about it, Phil wouldn't either.

Held tightly in his left hand, Barton clutched his purple backpack. It was doodled on, Phil realized now, with black sharpie. The purple canvas peppered with various designs ranging from song lyrics to a cartoon, sunglasses wearing monkey who was brazenly flipping off the world with the middle finger of his monkey hand.

Barton's knuckles were scrapped and scared. _Fights._ Phil remembered the disciplinary notices. That probably also explained the various bruises – in varying stages of healing – that peppered his arms and the healing shiner around his right eye.

And now that Phil was looking, he saw another, fresher, bruise painting the underside of Barton's jaw purple and blue.

Something pulled at Phil's instincts, something he couldn't quite place.

He met Barton's gaze and realized Barton had been looking _him_ over too. He still hadn't moved from his place in the doorway and hadn't said anything.

"Come in," Phil invited, "take a seat."

Barton did. Then he stared at Phil and waited, expression unreadable.

Phil continued to stare back, waiting to see what Barton would do. Most people, teenagers and adults alike, would grow uncomfortable after a while and would break the silence on their own.

But Barton was unmoved. For as long as Phil stared at him, Barton stared back.

Phil found himself smiling. He liked a challenge.

"My name is Mr. Coulson," he greeted lightly.

Barton glanced around the room and then looked steadily back at Phil. Still, he didn't say a word.

"As you've probably noticed, Mr. Williams, is no longer working here. I'll be taking his place as the school counselor."

Barton shot another glance around the room as if to say _'obviously'_ but despite the sarcasm of his expression, Barton looked relieved.

"Did you and Mr. Williams get along?" Phil asked carefully.

Barton blinked slowly and arched an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the file open on the desk in front of Phil as if it answered that question on its own.

Phil smirked. Fair enough.

"I'm making the rounds today," Phil went on. "I'll be meeting with all of the students over the course of the week to try and get a handle on how Mr. Williams left things."

Barton blinked at him.

"Is there anything I can do, Mr. Barton, to make this transition easier for you? From what I can see, we'll be seeing a lot of each other."

Another slow, lazy blink.

"Is there something Mr. Williams said or did that I can avoid to make our interaction a little smoother than it was with him?" Phil tried.

Barton's eyebrow quirked.

"Yeah," he answered finally, his voice low and even and very _very_ matter-of-fact, "don't be a _dick_."

Phil choked down a laugh and hid it behind a cough.

"I'll do my best," he promised. "Let's get started shall we?" Phil looked over the most recent disciplinary action in the file. "I see you've got morning detention until Wednesday and afternoon detention until next week."

Barton stared at him.

"The afternoon detention was for…skipping class?"

"I was late and missed my first class," Barton defended. "It happens."

"Six days in a row?" Phil challenged with a grin to take as much censure out of the words as he could.

Barton's brow arched and he shrugged a shoulder.

"And the morning detention was for," Phil looked down at the paper, "cheating on a quiz."

He looked up in time to see Barton scowling.

"I take it you contested that."

Barton shook his head and looked down at his hands, where he was picking at a few scabs on the knuckles of his left hand.

"You didn't contest it?" Phil questioned curiously.

"What's the point?" Barton replied with another shrug.

The _'Nobody would believe me'_ wasn't said out loud but Phil heard it all the same.

" _Did_ you cheat?" Phil asked plainly.

Barton's blue gray eyes snapped up to meet Phil's gaze and he actually looked surprised. Phil realized, with a bit of annoyance, that nobody had bothered to ask Barton his side.

"Well?" Phil prodded.

Barton's gaze grew more intense, staring at Phil as if he could see right into his soul.

"No," he finally answered.

Phil held his gaze, wondering if Barton would bother lying when the whole thing was over and done with anyway. Barton was watching him, waiting. Waiting, maybe, for Phil to scoff and call him a liar. Waiting for Phil to brush aside his defense.

Somebody here at Bouclier Academy was missing something when it came to Clint Barton. Phil was determined not to make the same mistake.

"I believe you," Phil announced.

Barton blinked at him, eyes wide.

"You do?"

Phil nodded.

"I do," he assured.

Barton stared, looking shell shocked. Then, so fleetingly that Phil almost missed it entirely, Barton smiled – a real, genuine, honest to God _smile_.

Phil could swear the whole room brightened.

* * *

_There you go! First installment of the Bouclier Academy AU! Anybody want to guess why I named the school that? Sound off with your guesses._

_Also, love it? hate it? lack any feeling at all concerning it? Let me know. I love hearing from you guys!_


	5. Bouclier Academy AU Part 2 (High School AU)

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works._

_Author's Note: While I embrace_ **_constructive_ ** _criticism remember this old saying if you choose to leave a review "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"_

* * *

_Now, this chapter is a bit heavier, in that we see what Clint's home life is like. For those of you that know his history in the VPU - the name Phillip Jacobs should ring some bells. Also, as a general warning, you guys know me. You know how much I love to write angst and hurt!Clint. So prepare yourselves accordingly._

_As usual with these AUs these characters appear as they are portrayed in the VPU and this is unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine._

**_Trigger Warning: Child abuse_ **

* * *

Clint shifted, hardly registering the movement as he instinctively kept his balance. He was standing mostly on the side and top of his chair, his entire body weight precariously balanced on the _one_ leg of the chair still touching the ground.

He twirled a pencil in the fingers of his left hand, looking up at the ceiling. He narrowed his eyes and chewed his lip. Then he shifted the pencil and threw it straight up. It spun in the air once and then the point slammed home into the ceiling tile.

Clint tilted his head, taking in the new addition to his work of art. That pencil and a dozen others were stabbed into the ceiling, carefully placed to form an arrow head. Next, he'd add the shaft and then the fletching would be last.

Coach Bryan was supposed to be monitoring his detention but he'd gotten called away to deal with something to do with the baseball team. They practiced year around, even though Bouclier had _other_ team sports for every season. The Bouclier Avengers baseball team were state champions though, probably because they never did anything but practice.

Bryan had left Clint with a stern glare and an instruction not to leave the room.

He'd been gone all of thirty seconds before Clint was raiding the pencil stash and balancing on the chair. He didn't do sitting still well and Coach Bryan had only really told him not to leave. He hadn't left.

The door to the classroom opened and Clint nearly faltered. He caught his balance a moment later and blinked in surprise at the new counselor, C something…Cullen? Cameron?

"Coulson," the counselor supplied as if he'd been reading Clint's mind. "Mr. Coulson."

Clint blinked at him.

"Coach Bryan asked me to look in on you."

Clint watched Coulson look from Clint's precarious perch to the arrangement of pencil's in the ceiling.

Coulson's eyebrow arched and Clint could swear he looked _amused_.

"He called you a flight risk," Coulson went on, not commenting on the pencils or the balanced chair. "Apparently you've got a history of skipping out on detention."

"Depends on who the jailer is," Clint replied with a shrug. "Coach Bryan made me run laps for an entire athletics class last time I ditched on him." No way he was risking the coach's wrath again.

"I suppose that explains why you're right where he left you," Coulson smirked, "essentially at least." Another look at the chair and the pencils.

Clint arched a brow, waiting for the scolding to start.

"What is that?" Coulson asked as he came closer, looking up at the pencils. "An arrow head?" he realized.

Clint nodded slowly, wary of the casual nature of Coulson's reaction.

"Was gonna add the arrow part…" Clint trailed off when Coulson shot him a look. "But I guess it's fine as is."

Coulson hummed in agreement and held out a hand. Clint rolled his eyes and handed over the rest of the pencils. Another pointed look from Coulson and Clint eased all four legs of the chair back to the floor.

"That's some impressive balance you've got there," Coulson commented.

Clint shrugged and dropped down to sit. He'd always been good at stuff like that. His particular specialty was climbing though. He couldn't count the number of times he'd scaled the side of the boy's home to sit on the roof. Jacobs had almost broken his neck once trying to get up there after him – unfortunately all the bastard had actually done to himself was dislocate his shoulder.

"Are you a fan of archery?" Coulson asked as he leaned against a nearby desk.

Clint shrugged.

He loved it, to be honest. Whenever it came into the rotation during Athletics class he was always sure to be on his best behavior. Coach Bryan had tried to convince him more than once to join the city archery league. But Clint knew he couldn't. Jacobs would never let him and even if he did, Clint couldn't be gone from the house any more than he already was.

"Do you do any other sports?" Coulson went on curiously.

Clint shook his head. He was already gone too much with detention. That thought had him glancing at the clock on the wall.

Five more minutes.

He'd had to add on ten for being late to morning detention. He'd have to haul ass to get home before the bus dropped off the others. It was Monday, Jacobs got off early on Mondays. He was probably already home.

"Somewhere to be?" Coulson asked.

Clint looked back at him.

"Home," he replied simply.

Coulson glanced at the clock then back at him.

"Don't do the crime if you can't do the time, kid."

Clint arched an eyebrow.

"I thought we agreed I _hadn't_ done the crime," he shot back.

Coulson blinked.

"That's true. But that was for morning detention wasn't it?"

"Yeah, but I was late for that," Clint reminded. "I'm serving out an extended sentence for the time I missed."

Coulson tilted his head.

"So wouldn't being _late_ be the crime in this situation?"

Clint scowled.

He _had_ been late, that was true. But it hadn't exactly been on purpose. Jimmy had accidently dropped a glass in the kitchen and it had shattered on the floor. Knowing they couldn't just leave it – Clint remembered what happened last time somebody had broken something – Clint had sent Jimmy and the others on to catch their bus and he'd stayed to clean it up. Then he'd spent precious moments rearranging the glasses in the cabinet so that it wasn't immediately obvious one was missing. It wouldn't fool Jacobs for long, but hopefully long enough for Clint to get home and get the others safely out of the line of fire.

He'd ridden to school as fast as he could after that but he'd still been late. Then he'd arrived to realize he'd forgotten to pack a lunch. A search through his bag had revealed a notebook and 2.50 in change. In this rich kid's cafeteria, that had been worth a bag of chips and a soda.

God he was hungry.

Coulson's cell phone rang and he pulled it from his pocket. Whatever was on the display had him smiling.

"Okay, kid," Coulson stood, "I can give you three minutes. Go home. Don't be late tomorrow."

Surprised, but not willing to look a gift horse in the mouth, Clint sprang from his seat, snatched up his bag and headed for the door.

"See you tomorrow, Mr. Barton."

"Yeah, Mr. C," Clint tossed over his shoulder as he jogged through the halls.

"Slow down, Mr. Barton!" Miss Hill called from the office as he sped by. Clint didn't bother responding as he slammed through the doors and ran for his bike.

His tire got tangled in someone else's chain lock and it took him precious seconds to jerk it free. Then he was off, pedaling hard. He was nearly hit by two cars and narrowly avoided going over the handlebars when a dog strayed out in front of him. And by the time he got to his street, he knew he was too late. The bus was already turning back onto the main road.

"Shit," he hissed, taking the corner in a low lean that nearly had his knee scraping the pavement.

He vaulted off his bike, leaving it abandoned with still spinning wheels in the front yard and took the porch steps in one leap.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" a little voice was pleading from the kitchen.

Clint saw three of the other boys huddled on the stairs.

"Go upstairs!" Clint snapped at them, tossing the nearest one his back pack. Wearing varying degrees on relief on their faces, they hurried to obey. "Jon," Clint pulled at a boy hovering just outside the kitchen door, "what happened?"

"He asked about the cup," Jon replied, twitching nervously as his eyes skirted back to the kitchen door at the sound of flesh meeting flesh. "Jimmy started crying."

"Okay," Clint pushed the boy to the stairs, "go. I've got it."

Jon hesitated. He was the second oldest, behind Clint. But he was still only eleven, young enough to still need protection.

"Go," Clint urged again, with a firm glare to back it up. "Block the door after Jimmy until it's me knocking, okay?"

Looking reluctant and a vaguely furious, Jon nodded and finally retreated towards the stairs.

Taking a breath, Clint pushed through the swinging kitchen door.

Phillip Jacobs, proprietor of Waverly Home for Boys was looming over eight year old Jimmy, whose lip was already bleeding. Jacobs was shaking with unspent fury, a reaction that didn't take much to spark.

"Jimmy," Clint snapped sharply, "come here."

The little boy scurried towards him, narrowly avoiding Jacobs' grabbing hand.

"He broke a goddamned cup! Everything has a consequence, you know that Clinton!"

"He didn't break it," Clint argued calmly, pushing Jimmy behind him and backing them both towards the door. "I did."

"Clint…" Jimmy whispered from behind him, small hands pulling at the back of Clint's shirt.

"Don't you lie to me, boy," Jacobs threatened.

"I'm not," Clint denied, reaching back to stop Jimmy from leaning around him. Keeping the boy out of sight was key. "I broke it. I cleaned it up and tried to hide it. It was me, not Jimmy."

"Clint, no," Jimmy pleaded, pulling at his shirt again. Clint kept his eyes on Jacobs but half turned to push Jimmy through the door and out of the kitchen.

"It's okay," Clint assured over his shoulder. "Go upstairs."

"Clint…" Jimmy whimpered.

"Go, Jimmy," Clint insisted. He tore his gaze away from Jacobs' stern glare to wink at Jimmy and give him a smirk. "I can take it."

Then with a final shove the door was swinging closed again, Jimmy safely on the other side.

Clint closed his eyes and drew in a fortifying breath as Jacobs shoved aside a chair to come towards him.

He could take it.

* * *

Coulson was assigned morning detention – well the science teacher had been, but Phil had offered to take it – and pushed into the appropriate room five minutes earlier than the designated time. He drew up short when he saw a familiar form folded forward over a desk with his head resting on his arms.

Clint Barton was here, early even.

He was wearing a large gray hoodie with the hood pulled up to cover his head and seemed, from a distance at least, to be asleep.

He didn't stir as Coulson moved closer and once he was able to round the desk and see his face, Phil was able to confirm the boy was, indeed, _asleep_.

But it was the new bruises that caught his attention. The entire corner of Barton's mouth was black and blue and his lip was split and swollen. The bruise that had been healing around his eye had been replaced by a fresh one and there was a slight cut above his eyebrow that hadn't been there before.

What the hell had happened to this kid?

"Barton?" Phil called carefully. He laid a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder and lightly shook him.

Barton reacted like Phil's touch was electrified.

He flinched away and jerked upright, nearly falling out of his chair in an attempt to get some distance. Phil retreated, holding a hand up in a calming manner.

"It's okay," Phil assured. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Barton looked around wildly, eyes wide and confused. He was still caught between awake and asleep, Phil realized.

"It's Mr. Coulson, you're at school, morning detention."

Barton blinked rapidly, eyes focusing and zeroing in on Coulson with alarming intensity.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Phil repeated. Because that point, given the new bruises, seemed important.

Barton's breathing, which had been frantic and rapid when he woke, evened out and eased.

"Who did that to you?" Phil asked, motioning at Barton's face.

"I got in a fight," the teen replied immediately.

"With who? Rocky?"

Barton rolled his eyes.

"A kid from my neighborhood. He was hassling my little brother. I stopped him."

Phil nodded slowly.

"You all right? Have you seen the nurse?"

"I'm fine."

"Maybe you should let the nurse look you over."

"I'm fine," Barton insisted again.

"It'll make _me_ feel better."

Something in Barton's eyes flashed.

"I don't give a shit what makes _you_ feel better."

Phil sighed out a deep breath.

"Kid, I can't just ignore it. Either we go to the nurse or I call him here, your choice."

He could tell by Barton's immediate frown that the idea of Nurse Wilson making a house call to the detention room where just anybody could walk in wasn't a welcome one.

The teen glowered at him and stood, snatching his backpack from the ground and starting towards the door without a word. Phil let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and followed.

Barton walked with his head down, hood pulled low over his eyes and leaving most of his face shadowed. His bag was hooked over one shoulder, but his white knuckled grip on the strap belied the relaxed positioning. And there was something about the way he was moving, something less fluid than how he'd been moving yesterday.

Phil felt his brow pinching as concern came to life within him. Again, something in his instincts pulled at him. He had a feeling he was missing something, something important.

Before he could analyze that feeling too deeply, they reached the nurse's office. The door was open and Phil could see a tall, dark haired man rummaging around in a cabinet.

When Barton didn't say anything, just stood by the open door giving Phil a mutinous look, Phil cleared his throat.

The nurse's head twisted, eyes narrowing at them over his shoulder. When he saw Barton, there was a flash of concern – but not surprise Phil realized – in his gaze.

"What now, kid?" the nurse grumbled as he turned and motioned Barton through the door.

Barton just clenched his jaw and moved stiffly into the office, glaring around the room and taking a seat on the cot with a glower.

"He says he got in a fight," Phil supplied.

"Who this time?" the nurse asked Barton as he caught the boy's chin and turned his face side to side to take in the damage done. "Matthews again?"

It was then that Phil remembered the stack of disciplinary actions in Barton's file – fighting often amongst the list of crimes.

"No one here," Barton replied lowly. "Kid in my neighborhood."

Phil watched the nurse's eyes narrow.

"Kid, huh?"

Barton just blinked at him, expression stony and eyes daring him to call him a liar.

Without another word, the nurse turned to Phil.

"You must be Coulson. Dan Wilson," he hooked a thumb towards his own chest. "And this pain the ass is a regular. You can go."

Phil was surprised that despite the apparent harshness of the words, there was nothing but warmth and familiarity in his tone. Phil slid a glance at Barton, but the kid was staring down at his own hands, picking at a scab on his knuckles.

"I'm supposed to be monitoring him," Phil replied. "Detention."

Wilson rolled his eyes and shot Barton a glance.

"They should just rent you a desk in there, Barton."

The teen shot Wilson a withering glare.

Then Wilson canted his head towards Phil, eyebrow arching. Phil watched Barton's gaze flick back and forth between them and then settle back on Wilson. Whatever the nurse saw there, it seemed to settle something.

"I think I can take custody," he replied, moving forward to usher Phil back out the door. But instead of closing the door in his face, Wilson hesitated with a hand on Phil's elbow. "Do you know what I'm looking at here?" he asked lowly, eyes intense.

Phil glanced at Barton, but the teen was stretching a rubber band between his fingers, eyes pinned on something across the room. Phil frowned, wondering where the rubber band had come from.

"He's moving stiffly," Phil answered Wilson's question quietly, shifting his gaze back to the man before him.

"Ribs then, getting him to let me see _those_ will be fun." The tone of his voice suggested it wouldn't be 'fun' at all. Then without so much as a parting word, Phil found the office door shut in his face.

* * *

Phil looked up from the file on his desk when a knock came at his door. He was surprised to see Dan Wilson standing there.

"We need to talk about Barton."

With nothing but that to lead, Wilson came into the office and shut the door.

"How is he?" Phil asked as the nurse took a seat across from him.

"Nothing broken, no concussion, seems to be nothing but bruises. I sent him to homeroom."

Phil nodded. That was good, he supposed. But Wilson still looked like he'd eaten something sour.

"What is it?"

"He said a kid did that to him?" Wilson asked.

Phil nodded.

"He said a kid was picking on his little brother and that he stopped him."

Wilson's gaze narrowed and he drew in and let out a deep breath.

"Barton doesn't have a little brother," Wilson pointed out.

Phil nodded. He knew that.

"I assumed he was talking about one of the other kids in his home."

Wilson nodded, rubbing at his mouth and looking troubled.

"What is it?" Phil asked.

"Did you know I was a military doctor?"

Phil blinked, taken off guard by the non-sequitur. He shook his head wordlessly. Of course he didn't know that, they'd only just met an hour ago.

"I used to patch guys up that had been in everything from fire fights to bar room brawls. I've seen a lot of bruises from fights in my day. Hell, I've treated _Barton_ after too many fights of his own right here on school grounds."

Phil stared at him, waiting.

"A guy that gets into a fight, is rarely the only one left bruised. And unless they happen to carry boxing gloves with them, evidence is always left behind."

Phil had a sudden vision of Barton picking at scabs on his knuckles.

"No fresh wounds on his hands," Phil realized.

Wilson pointed at him.

"Got it in one. Maybe you won't be as useless as the last guy."

Phil ignored the comment and sat forward in his seat, meeting Wilson's gaze intently.

He realized now, what instinct had been pulling at him.

"You suspect something," he realized. "At home?"

Wilson nodded.

"I even called CPS myself at the beginning of the school year."

"What happened?"

"Nothing. Barton showed up without a scratch for the next two weeks and was on his best behavior. Never missed a class, never stepped a toe out of line. Then everything went back to how it had been. Todd, the athletics coach has tried to pull him into sports to get him out of that house more, but the kid won't go for it."

Phil sat back again with a frown.

"He won't admit to it?" he asked.

Wilson scoffed.

"You've talked to him. That kid could drive some military trained interrogators I've known to insanity."

Phil sighed. That seemed frustratingly accurate.

"But you got him to come to me on his own," Wilson went on. "That's a first. Unless he's caught in the act of brawling on campus, that kid avoids my office like its hot zone in the Afghan desert."

"I threatened to bring _you_ to _him_."

Wilson laughed at that.

"Blatant manipulation aside, I like the way you think."

Wilson stood then.

"Talk to Coach Bryan, he's been around Barton more than I have and he's got a soft spot for the kid."

Phil nodded and watched Wilson head for the door.

"Wilson?"

The nurse turned with a questioning arch to his brow.

"Williams, before me, why didn't he do anything?"

He was surprised by the fury that lit the tall man's gaze.

"Williams was a vindictive bastard who had no business working with kids. I don't know what his problem with Barton was, but I guaran-damn-tee it that son of a bitch is the reason Barton won't ever look to any of us for help even if he needs it."

Phil blinked at that, surprised.

"I really hope you're gonna be different."

"I am," Phil assured firmly. "I will be."

Clint Barton wasn't going to slip through the cracks on his watch.

* * *

"What are you trying to do? Kill a fly?! Cut that bat like you mean it, Rogers, don't just wave it around! Practice how you play, men, always!"

Phil watched the young man at the plate nod. Steve Rogers. Phil had met with him this afternoon. Rogers was a junior and had already been offered athletic scholarships to half a dozen top-tier schools. He was also a shoe in for Prom King, if the rumor mill could be trusted, even though he was just a junior.

"Coach Bryan?" Phil called out as he approached.

The tall, dark skinned man turned to him and his firm, dark gaze, lightened with friendly warmth.

"New guy! Todd Bryan, nice to meet you." The man pumped Phil's hand firmly in greeting and then glanced at something to their left. "Odinson! I'm sure Ms. Foster will be happy to let you drool over her _after_ practice! Get back behind the plate!"

Phil watched a tall, bulky young man duck bashfully from where he'd been talking to a petite dark haired girl through the fence. The large man's long blonde hair was knotted behind his head and with a sheepish glance at Bryan, he pulled a catcher's mask back over his face. Thor Odinson, son of a foreign diplomat. A good kid, but loud and often disruptive. He was also a junior.

"What can I do for you?" Bryan asked as he crossed his arms over his chest and met Phil's gaze.

"I want to talk to you about a student."

Bryan nodded knowingly.

"You've met Barton, then."

Phil blinked in surprise and Bryan chuckled.

"You've been here all of five minutes," Bryan pointed out. "Who else can get you looking that worried that fast."

"You know his situation, then?"

"If you're asking if I know that kid gets beat up by his asshole of a guardian? Then yeah, I know. But CPS has proven useless and the kid denies it like we're asking him to confess to a capital crime."

"Why would he deny it?" Phil wondered, more to himself than anything, but Bryan answered anyway.

"Beats the hell out of me. The kid may be a pain in the ass I care about, but he _still_ a pain in the ass. My guess, he doesn't think it'd do any good. CPS came and went, remember? And nothing changed."

Phil chewed his lip in thought.

"Look," Bryan sighed. "I've done everything I could think of. I've tried to get him to join the baseball team – the kid's got an arm you wouldn't believe and he can place a pitch like no one I've ever seen. He turned me down flat. I tried to get him to join the city league for his archery obsession, he said no. I want to give him time out of that house, but he keeps shoving away the life line I'm trying to throw him."

Phil frowned. There was something more going on there, something they didn't know about. This went beyond cut and dry abuse. Barton had a reason for going home every day, a reason he wasn't trying to spend every waking moment _not_ _there._

"Thanks," he offered his hand to Bryan again, who shook it. But Bryan held on tighter when he tried to pull away.

"The guy that came before you, all he did was make things worse. But if you're legit about wanting to help him, then don't back down. Don't let him fool you. He may act like he's the toughest shit there is, and he _is_ …but he's…"

"Fifteen," Phil finished quietly. At the end of the day, no matter how tough he seemed, Barton was a _kid._

Bryan let out a weary sigh.

"Yeah."

"I understand," Phil assured.

Bryan nodded and released him, turning back to bark at Jared Mathews who had apparently just thrown a terrible pitch.

As Phil walked away from the baseball field, he was both heartened and even more concerned.

He was relieved to find out that he wasn't the only one that knew something was going on with Barton. Both Wilson and Bryan had seen exactly what he had and tried to help. They'd played by the rules and called CPS and nothing came of it. Because if Barton kept getting in fights, out in the open for everyone to see, it was too easy to blame every bruise on such behavior.

What Phil couldn't wrap his head around was _why_ Barton would go to such lengths to protect his abuser. Why he would lie to cover it up.

There was something else. Something even Wilson and Bryan hadn't put together.

He needed to talk to Barton.

* * *

Phil pulled aside the torn screen door and knocked on the wood behind it.

There was a thud and crash, a laugh and then the lock was turning.

Phil smiled in greeting at the young boy blinking at him. The kid didn't look more than eleven or twelve but he was watching Phil with a world-weary wariness that pulled at Phil's heart.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Phil Coulson. I'm Clint's teacher."

The boy's eyes lit a bit at the mention of the teenager.

"Is he here?"

The boy glanced over his shoulder, looking hesitant.

"He's making dinner," he finally confessed.

"Can I talk to him?"

He could see the refusal building in the boy's face.

"I want to help him," Phil assured gently, throwing all the sincerity he had into the words.

Something in the young man softened and after a moment he nodded, letting the door open further. Phil followed him inside, down a narrow hallway to where laughter was rising from the kitchen.

"Clint," his escort called as he pushed through the swinging door. "That new teacher's here."

Phil followed him through the door, a bit surprised Clint had talked about him, and found himself the subject of three curious stares, one wary one, and one furious one.

"What are you doing here?" Barton demanded.

"I just want to talk," Phil assured, glancing around to take in all the faces around him.

All of them, save one little boy with a busted lip, were unbruised. Not one of them had a mark on them.

He realized, with a heavy heart, what no one else had put together before.

It was so clear now, with it staring him right in the face.

Barton was protecting them.

Phil suddenly felt sick.

"Jon, take over with the mac. Don't let it burn this time, okay? Jimmy make sure he doesn't. Ryan, table. Bobby, drinks."

Then before Phil could even fully connect the names with faces, Barton was all but shoving him out of the kitchen.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Barton demanded again, unashamedly pushing Phil towards the front door. "You can't be here."

"Barton," Phil tried, unwilling to use any sort of force to stop his eviction. "I just want to talk, I promise."

He found himself unceremoniously out on the front porch, Barton standing in front of the door like a bouncer.

"You can't be here," Barton said again, but the way his eyes darted up and down the street told Phil their position on the porch had less to do with getting Phil out and more to do with keeping watch.

"He'll be back soon, won't he?"

Barton's cool blue-gray gaze cut back to him but if he was surprised by Phil's deduction he didn't let it show.

"You need to go." Barton's tone could cut steel and Phil worried what would happen if the boy's guardian got back and Phil was still here. Barton seemed to think nothing good.

"Come see me in the morning," he requested, backing towards the steps.

"No."

The blunt refusal was surprising.

"Barton…"

"Look," Barton stepped up toe-to-toe with him, eyes cold and voice sharp, "I know you think you're helping, but you're _not_." Something caught Barton's gaze down the street and for the first time, Phil saw him falter. "Go, _now_."

Phil was all but shoved off the porch.

"Barton…"

But the teen was having none of it. He practically escorted Phil to his car and forced Phil into it.

"Don't come back here." With that final order, Barton slammed the car door closed and ran back to the house. Phil saw him meet with another boy who had sprinted into the yard. Barton ushered the other boy inside and closed the door with a slam.

Unwilling to discount the urgency in Barton's actions, Phil started the car and pulled away. As he slowed to a stop at the end of the street, he looked in his mirror in time to see a car pulling into the driveway at Barton's house.

He watched a large, burly man climb out and stomp up to the porch. He practically ripped the screen door off the hinges as he stormed inside.

Phillip Jacobs, he realized with a coiling of anger in his gut.

"This isn't over, kid," Phil promised to an empty car.

Whatever it took, Phil would get Clint and every one of those other boys out of that house.

* * *

_So there you go! Another addition to the Bouclier Academy AU! As many of you guessed, "Bouclier" is French for "shield" ;) And I may have used the French word for it because I'm recently obsessed with The Musketeers which takes place in France *rolls eyes at self*_

_Anyway, I'd love to hear your thoughts! I know child abuse is hard to read about, it's equally hard to write about. But I couldn't do a high school AU without bringing in Phillip Jacobs. I hope you're also pleased to note that Phil is NOT the first one to notice what was going on._

_I await your reactions anxiously!_

_Later gators!_


	6. Bouclier Academy AU Part 3 (High School AU)

_Here is the next part to this fun little High School AU! And by fun I mean kinda sad and heartbreaking? Anyways, enjoy this update! As usual, this is unbeta'd and just for fun :D It also marks the first time in a long time that I've actually sat down and written something so yay for that too!_

**_trigger warning:_ ** _mentions of child abuse_

* * *

Clint did his absolute best to avoid Mr. Coulson the next day. He even went so far as to scope out morning detention – fully prepared to skip if needed – to make sure the science teacher, Ms. Simmons, was monitoring it like she was supposed to.

Having acquired the skill of making himself become invisible at a very young age – bitter thanks to _Jacobs_ for the necessity of that lesson – it was actually not all that difficult, in the end, to stay off Coulson's radar for the entire school day.

He might have known his luck couldn't last though. As he made his way into afternoon detention, none other than Mr. Stick-his-nose-where-it-doesn't-belong Coulson was leaning against the teacher's desk.

Clint gave the man a rebellious glare and then purposefully walked to the very back of the room, taking a seat in the furthest desk available. For several tense, silent moments, they just stared at each other. Coulson's gaze was open and concerned and a little too knowing for Clint's taste. Clint did his best to pour every ounce of defiance and rebellion he had into his own stare – daring Coulson to bring up the fresh bruise that had puffed up Clint's cheekbone or the dark hand print that had darkened around his wrist.

Then, just when Coulson drew in a breath, lady luck smiled on Clint one last time.

The classroom door swung open and another student walked in.

Coulson's mouth was startled shut and Clint couldn't help his triumphant smirk.

Then he realized exactly _who_ had just walked in.

Mr. Golden Boy himself, Steve Rogers. And he was sporting a nice new shiner to boot.

"Mr. Rogers," Coulson greeted in surprise.

"I was told to report for detention, sir," Rogers replied respectfully.

Coulson eyed him for a moment, assessing gaze taking in the darkening bruise.

"Should I be expecting anyone else?" he finally asked.

Rogers chewed his lip a little guiltily and shook his head.

"No sir."

"Then take a seat," Coulson instructed. "The two of you can spend the hour doing homework."

Clint breathed a silent sigh of relief and dug into his back pack, retrieving a worn, ripped copy of the first Harry Potter. He was already halfway lost in the wizarding world when he abruptly realized someone had taken the desk next to him.

He slid a sideways look at Rogers, who was dutifully opening his pre-calculus text book and pulling out a pencil and paper. Sensing Clint's gaze, Rogers glanced at him, eyebrows rising in question.

Clint quirked a brow, sending a speaking look around the room at _all_ the other empty desks.

"I'm sorry," Rogers blinked innocently, "was this seat taken?"

He said it with such painful politeness, but Clint heard the undercurrent of teasing sarcasm that most might have missed.

Clint narrowed his gaze in challenge.

"Look, we're gonna be stuck in here together until the end of next week," Rogers whispered, shooting a wary glance towards Coulson at the front of the room. "We might as well make the best of it."

Clint just continued to stare, but Rogers just kept blinking at him with his bright, too-blue eyes – looking all _friendly_ and shit.

Nobody here had bothered to be friendly towards him since before Barney. Clint had gone out of his way to foster that. He didn't _want_ friends. He didn't _want_ people getting too close.

"I'm Steve," Rogers stuck out a hand, smiling warmly.

Clint stared at him.

"I know you who are," he finally replied.

"And you're Clint Barton," Steve nodded. "Coach says you're one of the best pitchers he's ever seen."

"I don't play baseball," Clint countered sharply.

"I know, but he sure wishes you did," Steve answered with a quiet chuckle. "Our pitcher, Jared Matthews, he's all right…but he's not as good as the guy who graduated last year."

Clint gave his best sarcastically enthused face and then pointedly looked back at his book.

"So what are you in for?" Steve asked after a moment.

"Aren't you supposed to be doing homework or something?" Clint muttered without looking up.

"I finished most of it in class, it won't take me long," Steve shrugged. "So? What'd you do?"

"I punched the last guy who asked me too many questions."

Steve chuckled again.

"I got caught fighting," the junior admitted sheepishly.

"You?" Clint scoffed disbelievingly.

Rogers just sighed, gaze growing serious.

"I don't like bullies."

Clint stared at him, his own amusement fading.

"Yeah," he agreed quietly, rubbing a hand over the bruise on his wrist without realizing it, "me neither."

Steve watched him for a moment and then nodded at the open book on the desk.

"I love those books," he said abruptly. "My favorite's the fifth one."

"I've only read this one," Clint admitted. "About a hundred times."

"I have the others," Steve stated. "I'll bring the next one tomorrow and you can borrow it."

"That's okay," Clint shook his head, "you don't have to do that."

"I know," Steve grinned. "But I don't mind."

Clint shrugged as if he didn't care one way or the other – though in reality he was completely stunned by the offer. His nurse in the hospital had given him this one as a discharge present. Hiding it from Jacobs had become somewhat of an art.

"I skipped first period," he revealed abruptly, glancing at Steve.

"And you got repeated detention?" Steve asked with a confused frown.

"Six days in a row."

"Ah…" Steve raised his eyebrows in realization. "Did you have a good excuse at least?"

"I thought I did, Fury didn't agree."

Of course, Fury might have cut him a little more slack if Clint had told him the _real_ reason he'd been late six days in a row. 'Sleeping through my alarm' just wasn't something that garnered a lot of sympathy.

"Fury didn't agree with my excuse today either," Steve replied ruefully, flexing his right hand.

Clint caught sight of the split, bruising knuckles.

"You don't like bullies," Clint remembered.

Steve gave him a half grin.

"Apparently that's not enough reason to start a fight on school grounds."

Clint shrugged a shoulder. It sounded like plenty of reason to him. Of course, he'd started fights for a lot less reason so maybe his judgement on that was skewed.

"That's enough chit-chat, you two," Coulson warned from the front of the class.

Steve dutifully focused on his homework and Clint turned back to his book.

Clint, having been watching the clock for the last ten minutes of detention, was ready for it when the hour ended. He stood, backpack already slung over his shoulder even as Steve started packing up his half-finished physics homework.

Clint started to step away, hesitated, and then gestured vaguely at Steve's page.

"Number 3? You did it wrong."

Then he jogged to the door and slid to freedom even as Steve blinked in confusion after him.

* * *

Phil rubbed wearily at his eyes and glanced at his watch.

_9:45 p.m._

He should go home. Decided, he flipped closed the files on his desk and stood, sliding them into his briefcase. He clicked off his light and pulled his office door closed behind him, locking it quickly and headed down the hallway towards the side exit nearest to where he'd parked.

He had just passed the gym doors when he heard an odd ' _thwack'_ from beyond them.

Confused because Coach Bryan had said goodbye to him personally hours ago, Phil retraced his steps to the gym door and looked through the small narrow window.

He couldn't see much in the darkness of the gymnasium, but there was definitely someone in there. The equipment closet was also open, providing the only source of light, meager as it was in the large expanse of the gym.

Phil watched the intruder straighten, arms drawing up…no, he was drawing _something_ up…a bow. A moment later there was a slight whistle and then another _thwack._

A bow and arrow – archery.

He had a sudden memory of an array of pencils in the shape of an arrow head.

It couldn't be…

Phil pushed the door open and started across the gym.

The intruder noticed him immediately and did exactly as Phil _should_ have predicted.

He ran.

"Hey! Wait!" Phil called after him, kicking into a run to pursue. "Wait! Clint!"

He caught up to him in the boy's locker room, halfway out the window. He caught the hem of Barton's jeans and pulled him back. The teen all but snarled at him and retreated from Phil so quickly his back hit the lockers hard enough to rattle them.

"Easy!" Phil held up a soothing hand. "It's just me, Mr. Coulson."

But Barton was still in fight or flight mode. His gaze darted from the window to the door and back rapidly as he obviously calculated his best escape route.

"Hey, I'm not gonna hurt you," Phil assured. "I probably shouldn't have startled you and then chased you…that's my bad. You just caught me by surprise. It's awfully late to be here."

Clint's gaze finally stopped rabbiting around the room and settled on him, but only long enough to convey a ' _pot meet kettle'_ glare of sarcasm.

"Hey, I _work_ here," Phil defended. "What's your excuse?"

He saw Barton's posture slowly relaxing as the adrenaline of the moment faded.

"Coach Bryan leaves the window unlocked for me so I can use the archery stuff."

"He does?" Phil wondered in surprise.

"No, I actually bypassed the card reader on the exterior door and _broke_ in but decided to make my escape through a _window_ just for the hell of it."

Phil blinked in the face of the biting sarcasm.

"Well…" he cleared his throat, "how about I give you a ride home."

He was surprised by the naked panic that flashed through Barton's eyes.

"I have my bike," the young man insisted, voice deceptively calm considering his eyes were wide and slightly wild.

"We'll toss it in the trunk," Phil shrugged. "It's late. I just want to make sure you get home safely."

"I…" Barton trailed off, shifting uncomfortably and averting his gaze.

Phil felt an instinct tingle in the back of his mind. Barton didn't want to go home.

"Or," he hedged, "how about I take you for pancakes?"

 _That_ earned him a wide eyed look of surprise followed swiftly by distrusting suspicion.

"Just pancakes," he promised, "no strings attached."

He was fully prepared for a refusal, even vaguely prepared for Barton to just bolt.

So, suffice it to say, when Barton merely let out a weary sigh and nodded…Phil was shocked. He recovered quickly, though, and cleared his throat.

"Okay then," he gestured towards the door, "let's go."

* * *

Mr. Coulson was staring. He was trying to look like he _wasn't_ staring, but he was _staring_.

Clint supposed he couldn't blame him, though. He was _pretty_ sure he'd gotten rid of most of the blood before he'd snuck out of the house, but he might have missed some. And even if he hadn't, the swelling was probably pretty dramatic by now.

He had to give Coulson credit, though. Other than an initial sharp intake of breath when the new injuries had become visible in the light of the equipment room as they cleaned up, the guy hadn't commented. They'd driven in relative silence to a 24 hour iHop and were now quietly enjoying their pancakes. Clint was on his _third_ chocolate milk – the waitress had taken one look at him and kept his glass full.

He still didn't know why he agreed to this. It was probably a terrible idea.

But…he didn't want to go home yet. And he hadn't had dinner so he was hungry.

And he was just… _tired_.

He would have to go back, probably to a room full of worried boys. But Jacobs was done for the night. He'd been already snoring when Clint snuck out. The boys would keep the door blocked for the night anyway, so even if Jacobs woke up, he wouldn't be able to get to them.

He doubted the son of a bitch had the energy to do anything anyway. He'd worn himself out beating the shit out of Clint, after all.

"Pancakes good?" Coulson finally ventured.

Clint looked up at the counselor through his lashes, then back down at his own nearly empty plate.

He'd had five pancakes to start – they were gone. He'd gotten two more to replace them – they were _almost_ gone.

He raised his gaze again and cocked an eyebrow in silent sarcasm.

Mr. Coulson's lips twitched with a poorly restrained grin and he inclined his head.

"Right," the older man chuckled, "stupid question."

Clint felt the corner of his own mouth twitch and he lowered his gaze again, cutting into the meager remains of his second helping.

"So, I'm not going to ask you what happened," Coulson continued casually, "because I've got a pretty good idea already."

Clint forked a bite of pancakes slowly into his mouth and eyed the teacher warily.

"And something tells me you wouldn't tell me the truth anyway."

Clint stared, setting his expression with as much apathetic disinterest as he could while he continued chewing.

Inexplicably, Coulson's mouth twitched with another restrained grin before sobering.

"What I _don't_ know, though, is why you let him get away with it."

Anger flared through Clint's veins and judging by the assessing glint in Couslon's gaze, it had shown in Clint's eyes.

"I mean, you're a tough kid. Smart. A lot less naive than most kids your age. You know it's not right and yet…" Coulson waved a hand vaguely in Clint's direction.

"So much for no strings," Clint ground out acidly. Typical adult.

"Hey, did I ask you anything?" Coulson held up a hand defensively. "I'm just talking here – thinking out loud if you will."

"How about you keep your thinking silent like the rest of us do," Clint retorted.

"Yeah, you're good at silent," Coulson volleyed back easily.

Another sharp flare of anger boiled in Clint's chest. Did Coulson think he _wanted_ this? That this is the life he'd choose if he actually _got_ a say? But he didn't _get_ a choice. He got dealt his hand and he'd suck it up and take it.

He wasn't _weak_.

"But you can take it, right?" Coulson went on, voice still pitched in that casual, easy tone.

 _Damn right_ he could take it.

"But not every kid out there is tough as shit like you, Barton. Why should those other boys have to take it too?"

"They _don't_ ," Clint snapped lowly. He protected them. He would always protect them.

"Yeah, you make sure of that," Coulson agreed. "But what happens when you aren't there? If you get home late because you got detention _again_?" Coulson leaned across the table, holding Clint's gaze with his own. "What happens when you turn eighteen and the state boots you from the system. Who protects them then?"

Clint's hand ached and he abruptly released the fork he'd been clenching in his fist. The utensil clattered to the table, bouncing off the plate loudly.

"You won't be there to shield them forever, Clint," Coulson pressed on mercilessly. "You think you're protecting them, but you _aren't_. You're the band aid on the gunshot wound. You want to _help_ them? Treat the _wound_. For a bullet wound, you'd find a doctor. For this, you'd…"

"What?" Clint hissed lowly. "Call CPS?" He huffed out a dark, sarcastic chuckle. "Been there, done that," he smirked joylessly, "didn't even get a t-shirt because CPS is fucking useless."

He watched Coulson sigh, eyes welling with sympathy.

And _that_ just pissed Clint off even more.

"Don't look at me like that – like I'm just a stupid kid who doesn't understand how the world works. I _do_ , better than most. You think you're spelling out some grand epiphany? You think I don't _know_ how wrong all this shit is? But it's _my_ shit – _mine_. I'll deal with it just like I always have. I don't need you to save me. I don't need _anyone_ to save me. So you can take your patronizing bullshit and your goddamn pancakes and go to hell."

Clint stood, stalking towards the door and ignoring Coulson's calls after him.

His bike was sticking half out of Coulson's truck, the lid held closed by a spare bungie chord. Clint unhooked the cord and all but ripped his bike free. He put foot to pedal just as Coulson came jogging out the door.

"Clint wait!"

But Clint didn't.

He didn't need anyone to tell him Jacobs was a cruel, violent asshole. He _knew_. He didn't need anyone to tell him that taking the hits for the other boys was a temporary solution. He knew that too.

He would handle it. He would take care of the others, just like he always had.

No matter what it took.

* * *

Clint wasn't in school the next day.

Phil had asked around, but nobody seemed to know Clint well enough to notice he was gone. Nobody, at least, except his detention buddy Steve Rogers, who spent most of detention watching Clint's empty desk pensively.

Phil knew it was his fault.

He had known he was pushing it. He had known he was nudging at a likely very raw wound and that Clint would only take so much before he lashed out.

He just hadn't expected the kid to lash out _quite_ that suddenly or intensely.

The weekend came and went and Clint wasn't in school Monday either.

Phil waited until lunch was over, and when Clint still didn't show, he headed out to the parking lot. It was early. The man who ran the boys home hadn't gotten home until after five last time Phil stopped by, so he should be at work. The rest of the kids should still be in school.

He just hoped Clint was there.

* * *

_there! That's part 3! things are starting to heat up as we approach the big tipping point of this arc. Where is Clint? Did he skip school to avoid Phil? Will he be at the house when Phil gets there? I'll try not to take so long on the next part! haha_

_drop me a line if you've got the time and inclination!_


	7. Bouclier Academy AU Part 4 (High School AU)

_Hey everyone! So I got the urge to write this tonight and here we are. Now, this chapter is shorter, but it concludes the first arc of the Bouclier Academy AU. I'll explain more at the end, but the next of arc of it will bring Natasha into the mix. So enjoy, remember that this is unbeta'd and just for fun and is literally written without anything more than some mental plotting. So don't look too closely for plot holes lol._

_Trigger warning: mentions of child abuse_

* * *

The driveway was empty when he arrived and the house seemed quiet. Phil approached the front door slowly, glancing at the windows for any visible sign that someone was inside.

There didn't seem to be any.

Phil made his way up the front porch steps anyway and pulled open the ripped screen door. It was then that he hesitated. Clint had asked him – he had actually more _ordered_ him – not to come back here. He was only here out of worry, out of _concern,_ but it still felt like a betrayal of trust…whatever meager trust existed between them at least.

He dropped the hand he'd had raised to knock and sighed, retreating from the door. He turned, ready to go back down the steps, and pulled up short.

Clint was standing at the foot of the stairs. Absolute fury created a dark storm across his countenance. His posture was stiff and coiled and his hands were curled into tight, bloodless fists at his sides. But that was all lost on Phil.

All Phil could see were the fresh bruises and sloppy row of stitches above his eyebrow.

"Barton…" Phil descended the first step warily, one hand slightly outstretched as one would to a startled animal.

The teen just stared at him, dark anger swirling in his gaze, making them look more stormy gray than blue.

"I'm only here because I was worried," Phil explained quickly, descending the rest of the steps.

He expected Barton to retreat, to preserve his personal bubble, but instead the teen stood his ground, burning Phil to the ground with his gaze.

"You missed school," Phil went on.

Still nothing but cold fury.

"Barton…"

The blonde interrupted him suddenly, voice pitched in a low dangerous tone that was more effective than if he'd yelled at the top of his lungs.

"Do you have any idea what he'd do if he found you here?"

Phil wished he felt some measure of relief that Barton wasn't even dancing around the truth of it anymore. But instead, all he felt was a sickening mixture of guilt and worry.

"He gets off early on Mondays," Barton explained in a near growl.

Phil felt a chill glide down his spine. He hadn't known that. He reflexively glanced to the street, half expecting a car to be pulling into the driveway.

"I told you not to come here," Barton went on. "I _told you_."

"I was worried," Phil tried again.

"I don't need you to worry about me," Barton snapped. "I need you to not make things _worse_."

"I can help you," Phil insisted, stepping closer.

Barton outright laughed – a heartbreaking sound of hopelessness mixed with sarcasm.

"You want to help me? Just leave me _alone_."

"I can't do that."

"Why?!" It was a desperate, frustrated, and sadly confused response.

"Because you don't deserve this," Phil replied calmly.

Something in Barton's eyes shifted, so subtly Phil almost missed it. He wondered if anyone had told Barton that before – that he didn't _deserve_ any of this.

"I can't just look the other way," Phil went on with a slow sigh.

"Why not?" Barton replied dryly, but his eyes shifted again, a faint sheen of moisture rising in them. "Everyone else does."

"Yeah, well, I'm not everyone else."

Barton scoffed sarcastically and averted his gaze.

"I will help you, Barton, if you let me."

"Please, just _go_ ," the teen requested quietly, refusing to meet Phil's gaze.

"Okay," Phil agreed softly, stepping so he was shoulder to shoulder with Barton, facing the street while Barton faced the house. "Who put those stitches in? Did you do it yourself?" Barton didn't answer. "Or did one of them have to do it?" The teen's jaw clenched. "I know you think you're protecting them. And you _are_ , probably in the best and only way you think you can," he allowed, trying to soothe the harshness of his words from the other night. "But…there might be a better way, kid. There might be a way you can make sure he never hurts anyone else."

"I've been down that road," Clint whispered roughly. "It didn't end anywhere good."

"Yeah, well, you didn't have me in your corner then."

Phil pretended not to notice the moisture welling in the teen's eyes, moisture Barton blinked away before it could fall.

"Please go."

Phil didn't make him ask again. He nodded silently and made his way back to the car. Once inside, he watched Barton's back for a moment. The teen hadn't moved. He still stood stock still at the base of the porch steps, staring at the house before him.

Even though it went against every instinct he had, Phil turned on the car and drove away.

* * *

It happened that night.

A phone call at 3am had Phil startling awake and answering blearily.

"'ello?"

" _Mr. Coulson?"_

Ice raced through Phil's veins, leaving him cold and shaking.

"Barton?"

" _I only get one phone call and I didn't know who else to call."_

"One phone call? Barton what happened?"

" _It's over now,"_ the teen said instead of answering. _"It's over."_

"Barton, where are you?"

But even before he answered, Phil knew. He remembered the fire he'd seen in Barton's eyes. He remembered how vehemently he talked about protecting the other boys.

And he knew.

" _Jail."_

"Jesus, kid, what did you do?"

" _I found a different way."_

The line went dead with a quiet click.

Phil couldn't remember any of the drive to the police station. He didn't remember seeing a single stop light or speed limit sign. All he could focus on were Barton's last words before he hung up.

_I found a different way._

Phil had thrown on clothes and called a buddy of his that worked at the police station. His friend, Jessica Yates, promised to look into it and would fill him in when he got there. It wasn't the first time a kid Phil knew had ended up in jail.

But this one felt different. This one felt worse.

Phil parked at the station and ran inside.

Jessica was waiting in the lobby.

"He's being processed," she said by way of greeting.

"What happened? Is he okay?"

"A little beat up from what I could see, but mostly okay. He's the one that _did_ the beating, Phil."

Phil blinked.

"What?"

Jessica sighed and nodded for Phil to follow her. He did without complaint. A few winding halls later and he was looking through a two way mirror at Barton. The teen sat handcuffed at a small table, looking completely detached from the entire situation and not at all nervous.

"We've only got his confession so far, but they're interviewing the other kids as we speak," Jessica explained quietly.

"Confession?" Phil choked on the words.

"His guardian is in a coma in the hospital, Phil," Jessica revealed bluntly. "Your boy put him there with a leg broken off a wooden chair."

Phil felt sick.

_I found a different way._

"He says the guardian was abusive. He claims to have done it to protect himself and the other boys in the home."

Phil closed his eyes. Barton was finally telling the truth. Phil just hadn't thought he'd do it like this.

"Only problem is he jumped the guy when he got home from work. Near as we can tell, he hadn't laid a hand on any of the kids before Barton took him down."

"He's not lying," Phil assured. "Just _look_ at him. Look at his history…the bastard was abusive."

"I did," Jessica assured. "And so did the guys running the case."

"But?" Phil asked warily.

"But he put the guy in a coma, Phil."

"Is he gonna serve time?"

"Depends on the judge he gets," Jessica answered honestly.

Phil rubbed a hand over his eyes.

"Can I talk to him?"

"Not yet, you've got no legal tie to him. His social worker is on the way and will be with him through processing. If you hang around, I'll let you know when you can see him."

Phil nodded silently and let himself be lead back to the lobby.

_I found a different way._

The words haunted him now.

* * *

Four hours later, he was shown into a small interview room.

Barton was sitting at the table, cuffed wrists resting on the table in front of him.

"Hey kid."

Barton met his gaze unflinchingly but didn't speak.

"Where's your social worker?"

"With the others I think," Barton answered easily.

Phil nodded and sat down across from the teen.

"Kid, this isn't what I meant by finding a different way."

Barton's lips quirked sadly.

"I know," he admitted. "I didn't have time for your way."

"They could put you in jail."

"I know. I knew that when I broke off the chair leg and waited for him inside the door. I knew what I was doing."

"Why?" Phil asked. "Why now? Why today?"

Barton lifted his chin a little.

"It's not because of you," he said quietly, though it did nothing to settle Phil's guilt. "I know people at the construction site he works at. I work there on weekends and summers. He called me, told me Jacobs got fired today."

The pieces fell into place in Phil's mind.

"Preemptive strike," he realized.

Barton nodded once.

"Last time he was that pissed…" Barton trailed off and swallowed thickly, briefly looking down at the table before raising his gaze again, "he got through me. I wasn't letting that happen again."

Now it was Phil's turn to nod. He sighed and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table between them.

"They're all telling the truth," he revealed, "the other boys. Every one of them is telling the whole truth."

Clint nodded, not looking the least bit surprised.

"You told them to?" Phil guessed.

A silent shoulder shrug.

"Why now?" Phil asked again.

"Because for the first time," Clint explained, "he can't hurt them for it."

Phil's gut clenched, thinking of the CPS interference at the beginning of the school year. He wondered how bad it had been for them after that. He almost didn't want to know.

He let out a slow breath and rubbed at his neck. A slight knock came at the door.

"One more thing, and then I have to go."

Barton stared at him expectantly.

"No matter what happens…jail time or not…I want to know if you'll consider something?"

Barton's eyebrow arched in question.

"I'm a registered foster parent," Phil revealed.

He saw something flash through Barton's gaze – maybe surprise, maybe hope.

"When this is all over…will you come live with me?"

Barton's jaw went slack, for the first time since Phil had known him, his entire expression was laid bare.

"You…you _want_ me to live with you?"

"On one condition," he replied with a slight smile. "You just do your best. Whatever that looks like from here on out. Do your best to do your best every day and we'll never have a problem. What do you say? Think about it?"

Moisture welled in Barton's eyes, but never fell. The teen nodded, swallowing thickly but not speaking.

"Okay." Phil stood and on instinct, walked around the small table, hesitating by Barton's shoulder. He reached out and carefully rested his palm across the back of the teen's neck. "I'm in your corner now, kid. And I'm not going anywhere."

For some reason, the promise felt like the most natural thing Phil had ever said in his life.

* * *

Clint spent the rest of the school year and half the summer in juvenile hall.

Phil visited him three times a week, without fail.

And when Clint walked out a free man on July 12th, Phil was waiting for him.

* * *

_Now, I don't presume to know anything about the legal system or if Clint would ACTUALLY serve any time for what he did, given the circumstances. However, for the sake of the story, I'm doing what I want to draw the parallel to the Clint in the VPU that served time in military prison. I wanted that connection. Hopefully this didn't seem too rushed, but I didn't want to drag the story on when i knew exactly where it was headed and I really didn't see PHil tolerating any of this for much longer without doing something. So I had Clint do something first._

_Now, there is another arc to this AU storyline. It'll pick up sometime later, after Clint's been living with Phil for a while and they've settled in to their new normal. That arc will cover Natasha coming into the story and shaking things up. So look for that down the line ;)_

_You all know I love to hear what you think, so drop me a line if you feel so inclined._


	8. Bouclier Academy Part 5 (High School AU)

_Well helllloooo! It's been a while since I've written anything Avengers related and I got the urge to kick out the first part of the next arc of the high school AU. This isn't very long, but I ended it at a very specific point and I shouldn't be TOO long coming with the next part of this. So just to recap, in the first arc, Phil was the new guidance counselor at Bouclier Academy. It's here that he meets Clint, a kid there on scholarship. He comes to find out Clint is being abused at his group home. Push comes to shove, Clint ends up preemptively attacking his abuser, Phillip Jacobs, with a leg broken off a wooden chair. He goes to juvie for 3 months and when he gets out, Phil becomes his guardian._

_This is unbeta'd and pretty much off the cuff. I hope you enjoy it anyway ;)_

* * *

Phil glanced at his watch as he jogged up the stairs to the loft. His condo wasn't small, but it only had one bedroom. He's used the loft area as an office since the day he moved in. But now his desk and other office equipment was crammed into the corner of his bedroom.

Now the loft was Clint's.

He glanced over the railing as he crested the stairs and saw the teenager still sprawled face down in his bed. His head was half buried under his pillow and Phil could see earbuds in his ears. The blanket and sheet was twisted around Clint's waist and one bare foot was hanging over the edge of the bed.

"Clint?" Phil tried, but without any real conviction. With his headphones in, Clint wouldn't hear him and the kid never slept without music playing, not anymore. It had been an accidental discovery in the first few weeks after Clint got released from juvie and into Phil's custody. The nightmares had been bad, very bad. A combination of Phillip Jacobs and some of the more horrible things he'd seen in juvie. But music helped. Not in a huge or dramatic way, but it helped.

Phil sighed and made his way across the room, stepping over discarded clothes and baseball equipment. Clint's archery gear, Phil knew, was meticulously stored in a special cabinet near the window.

"Clint," he called again, this time louder. He grasped the heel of the foot hanging over the bed and shook it lightly.

The result was immediate. Clint's entire body tensed and he twisted, squinting blearily at Phil. A few rapid blinks more and Clint relaxed, pulling out his headphones and scrubbing a hand across his face.

"What time is it?" he asked around a yawn before burrowing back into his pillow.

"Almost 7, the guys will be here soon. I let you sleep as late as I could."

Clint nodded, but then went still, eyes closed again.

" _Now_ , Clint."

Clint grunted and started sluggishly moving.

"I'm up. I'm up."

"Breakfast in 10," Phil called over his shoulder as he headed back for the stairs.

He glanced back and breathed a sigh of relief that Clint was at least sitting up now, even if he still looked half asleep.

Phil allowed himself a small smile as he jogged down the steps, hardly believing how far they'd come in just six months.

* * *

Phil looked up from his paper – he would always get a real paper no matter how far technology progressed – when he heard thundering footsteps on the stairs. Clint came leaping down from the last few steps and into view, his backpack on one shoulder, his gym bag strap slung across his chest, and his bow case in his left hand. He had a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and his hair didn't look like Clint had even  _looked_  at a brush, but at least he was clothed.

The gym bag and backpack were abandoned near the door in a haphazard pile, but the bow case was carefully leaned against the wall. Phil was still watching him as Clint made his way over to the bar island. He spit a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink and then rinsed his mouth straight from the tap.

Phil blinked in patient disbelief. Life with a teenager had proven…fascinating.

"What?" Clint demanded, but without any rancor. He just cut an annoyed look at Phil out of the corner of his eyes as he slid onto a barstool.

"Nothing," Phil replied, looking back at his paper. He knew any attempt at sentimentality would be rebuffed. Clint had come a long way since he'd come into Phil's custody, but not  _that_  far. He still kept his emotions close to the vest, even around Phil. "Hope cereal is okay," he went on casually.

Clint hummed agreeably and then muttered under his breath, "Considering you can't  _burn_  cereal."

Phil glared over his paper.

"Hey, that was one time and I'd never made pancakes before."

"Those weren't pancakes. They were hockey pucks…literally. They were black and  _hard._ "

Phil huffed.

"See if I make you homemade breakfast again."

"Promises, promises," Clint teased with a cheeky smirk.

Phil glared to hide his own grin.

"Ungrateful," he accused.

Before Clint could reply, the front door swung open, heralding the arrival of three teenage boys.

"Morning, Mr. Couslon," Steve Rogers greeted brightly as he led the way inside. Tony Stark and Bruce Banner both echoed the greeting as they filed in after him, leaving the door hanging open in their wake.

"Clint, you have  _got_  to hear this new album I found when I was poking through that music store downtown," Tony announced as he leaned against the counter next to Clint and picked a piece of cereal out of the bowl with his fingers. "This is good," he stated. "Better than those hockey puck pancakes at least."

"Hey!" Phil protested.

Tony shrugged.

"Sorry, Mr. C, I just call it like I see it."

"You about ready?" Steve asked of Clint, probably to keep Tony from saying anything else. "Thor is loading your bike in the truck."

Clint nodded and shoveled a few quick spoonfuls of cereal into his mouth even as he slid off the stool.

"See you at school." Phil offered Clint a smile and a slight wave of farewell.

The teen's mouth quirked into a bit of a grin and he gave Phil a nod before following his friends towards the front door. Phil watched Steve pick up Clint's gym bag and Tony grabbed his back pack. Clint handled his bow himself and Bruce brought up the rear closing the door behind them.

The silence that followed was strange. It always was.

Phil wasn't sure when he'd gotten used to the sounds of teenagers in his house, but he had. Even when it was just Clint, the kid always had music playing, or the tv on.

He didn't miss the silence though, not even a little.

* * *

"Why does he always get to ride shotgun?" Tony demanded from where he was squeezed in the back seat with Thor and Bruce.

"Because it's my truck and he's my favorite," Steve shot back with a teasing smirk.

Clint shot Tony a superior smirk but didn't say anything. They all knew the real reason, even if they'd never say it. After he'd gone after his former guardian, Phillip Jacobs with the broken leg of a wooden chair – and consequently ended up spending three months in juvie for assault – the truth about Jacobs and Waverly Home for Boys had finally come out. Years of abuse and neglect were cast into the light whether Clint liked it or not. So everyone knew now.  _Everyone_. Most people were smart enough not to bring it up, the ones that weren't had to face the wrath of half the baseball team and Mr. All American, Steve Rogers, himself.

Clint wasn't allowed to handle any of the jerks himself, not with three months still left on his year long probation. So Steve and Thor played enforcers, even if it  _did_  make Clint feel like a damsel in distress sometimes. Tony took verbal potshots from the sidelines and Bruce usually warned of any adults headed their way. Having back up for the first time in his life wasn't so bad, even if it meant sometimes they saw beyond the walls he put up. They knew he was still skittish, even though he tried not to be. He didn't like to be touched, not even in a casual friendly way. They all knew it. They all respected it and made sure everybody else did too.

Phil was different, though.

Six months in and Clint had finally stopped holding his breath every time Phil gripped the back of his neck. He'd stopped nearly falling out of the bed when Phil shook his foot to wake him. It wasn't much, but it was more than Clint allowed anyone else.

"What time is your archery thing this weekend?" Bruce asked, leaning forward over Tony to better see Clint.

"Why?" Clint asked suspiciously.

"Because we're coming!" Steve announced cheerfully.

"And when you win, because we all know you will, we're taking you out to celebrate," Tony added.

"It's a regional competition, I might not win," Clint pointed out, fingers twitching nervously as he thought about all the practice he needed to get in before this weekend. "And you guys don't have to come. It's gonna be pretty boring and long…"

"We're coming," Thor stated firmly.

Clint snapped his mouth shut and fought back the rush of warmth that flooded his chest.

"Everybody needs a cheering section," Steve added with a grin.

Clint fought down an answering smile.

But mostly failed.

* * *

"Advanced physics? They're moving you mid-year?" Tony asked as he leaned against the lockers next to Clint's. He watched the younger teen pull books out and shove them into his backpack for first period.

"Yeah," Clint replied. "Ms. Simmons says it'd be more challenging for me. Apparently I become distracting when I'm bored." Clint thought back to the paper ball catapult he'd made after finishing his class work last Friday. He'd been lucky she'd been too impressed to give him detention.

"So you'll be in with me and Bruce!" Tony realized with a sly grin. He was likely plotting all the trouble he could get them into.

Clint rolled his eyes, zipped his backpack shut and turned.

And saw the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen walk out of the front office. Legs for miles, long red hair, and the greenest eyes he'd ever seen.

Noticing his sudden distraction, Tony turned too, letting out a low whistle when he saw her.

"Watch it, bird boy, you're drooling," Tony teased.

Clint realized his mouth had dropped open and he snapped it closed, glaring at his friend.

"Who's that?" Steve asked, coming up behind them and standing next to Clint.

"Don't know," Tony replied, still grinning teasingly at Clint. "But Clint sure wants to find out."

"Shut up, Tony," Clint growled, tearing his eyes away from the girl and turning pointedly away. "I gotta get to homeroom." He walked away without waiting for a reply.

He rolled his eyes as he heard them laughing after him.

He stalked into his homeroom class, ignored Mr. Fitz's greeting and slid into a desk at the back corner. He pulled out his iPod – a gift from Phil after they'd realized music helped him sleep better – and slid an earbud in. A book came out next, the latest Harry Potter, on lend from Steve.

Phil had offered to buy them all for him, but Clint had insisted borrowing from Steve was fine. Phil already did too much for him.

Usually the desk next to him remained empty. Nobody had liked sitting near him  _before_  he'd gone to juvie for nearly beating a man to death. But today he sensed a presence slide into the seat next to his.

He looked up on instinct.

Green eyes looked back at him.

"Hi," she greeted with a smile that Clint was sure made people go weak in the knees. "I'm Natasha."

* * *

_*rubs hands together*_

_and so they meet_

_oh the drama to come THE DRAMA ;)_

_Love you guys! Until next time!_


End file.
